The Halls of My Home
by Mirrordance
Summary: In and around the magnificent halls of Thranduil's Kingdom, father and son attempt to navigate political intrigue, mortal danger, and each other. A collection of Mirkwood-based one-shots starting with "Bed Rest:" There are only a handful of things that can keep an injured Legolas willingly on his bed– threat of disability, a King's command, and his father's lonely, watchful eyes .
1. 1: Bed Rest

_Hi guys!_

 ** _Thank you so much to all who read, reviewed, followed, favorited, etc. my most recent fic, "Recoveries."_** _I really really appreciate your time, especially for those who send over kind reviews and PM's. Every time I think I've run out of ideas, a late review swings by and there go the muses again... must be all these years of inactivity sneaking up on me! At any rate, here is my new offering, a collection of first-person P.O.V. one-shots called_ _ **"The Halls of My Home**_ _" which will be featuring the POVs of both Thranduil and Legolas._

 _I've_ ** _been posting fics within fics centered around life in Mirkwood lately_** _, indirectly as flashbacks to "Walking Wounded" and "Recoveries," and more directly also as bonus fics to end my obsessive little Author's Afterwords. I thought – why not compile them in one place, either as-is or extended_ ala _PJ's Extended Editions (LOL), along with whatever other little one-shots I can think of along the way? And so here we are :) I hope you enjoy reading these little ficcies (though I can never seem to write short ones) as much as I enjoyed writing them._

 ** _Please note_** _, they are not necessarily of the same universe, or arranged in any particular order; I just reuse original characters out of convenience. One day there may be a more coherent plan, but until then, these are just stand-alone stories :) Let's kick things off with the first one: "Bed Rest." As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome!_

* * *

 **"** **Bed Rest"**

 _Thranduil's P.O.V.: There are only a handful of things that can keep an injured Legolas willingly on bed rest – the threat of disability, a King's command, and the watchful, lonely eyes of his worried father._

* * *

They know to get out of my way.

In moments I find the cause of my impossibly busy morning's disruption. He is the cause of many a morning's disruption for many other elves too, I gather, for a small crowd of his fellow soldiers surround a cadre of nervous healers, who in turn hover over him worriedly, wringing at their hands. They all part for me and finally, this halo of watchers let me have sight of him.

Legolas is seated on the ground with his head resting on folded arms perched over his knees. On one hand is a flask of water. On the back of his neck rested a cold, wet cloth. It soaks the loosened neck of his tunic. Beside him and resting against his hip are his bow and an emptied quiver; I had passed the targets of the ranges along my run here, and had seen one with a flurry of shafts crowding its eye. It is typical of my son's output, and I cannot reconcile the accuracy of that aim with what is before me.

The elves around us favor me with some semblance of a bow, though Legolas does not even raise his head to acknowledge me. If I know him, it is partly from embarrassment and partly from discomfort – his hand holding the water is shaking, and I see his back rising and falling in large, carefully controlled breaths.

"All who have no usefulness here are to return to their duties," I tell the archery master, with a hint of disdain for the intrusion – well-meaning though it may be – that my son has already had to suffer.

The soldiers do as I command even before the archery master repeats it to them. One captain, however, dares my patience by stepping forward and clasping Legolas' arm reassuringly before walking away. This horrid little rebellion lets others find the same courage. They follow her lead one by one, and all I can find the heart to do is look up at the heavens in consternation and let them show their love for my son. Legolas likes things like that. He can be affectionate, like his mother.

"What has happened here?" I demand of those who remained – the healers and the archery master, who had command of Legolas this morning. Maenor, head of the healing wards himself, is among them. He is the only one who looks unfazed. He has one hand to Legolas' wrist, and was doing a quiet count.

I have some idea of what might be wrong. There was a passing detail in the debriefing reports I read a few nights past. My son had returned from patrol recovering from a concussion. A week's rest and he would be allowed to return to light duties – no close combat, no running, no heavy lifting, no horse riding, no forays outside of the stronghold and its immediate environs. A week of that, and he would be permitted to return to regular duties only after he passes the healers' expert examination.

He seemed well to me, and did not even have to stay at the healing wards for more than a day of observation. We even managed to share a few meals since his return. He was cooperating with the healers' instructions too, and today's practice archery according to the prescribed schedule can certainly fall within the restrictions imposed upon him. That is, I believed so until an anxious page disrupted court this morning to say that my son was collapsed on the field on his first day back after injury.

"Was he not cleared for light duties?" I demand further.

"I am so sorry aran-nin," says the most nervous healer. Rossenith, I recall her name as, and I shall never forget it if all of this is through some fault of hers. "It was I who cleared him. He lost consciousness for a brief moment but revived quickly. We will take him to the healing halls now for further examination. I will accept any punishment for my miscalculations gladly, but if you would let me have care of him until he is well and truly recovered, I swear on my father's name that I will not let you down again. I take full and absolute responsibility for this relapse."

"No."

Legolas' voice is muffled beneath his hair but it commands all of our attention. He lifts his head and looks up at us blearily.

"Please," he says – this, specifically to me. "I withheld information. I did not think it was important."

"You lied to your healer?" I ask, darkly. "And what if you were restored to active duty based on some falseness? You could have endangered yourself, those you commanded, and the very mission you seek to-"

"I did not lie, _ada_ ," Legolas says vehemently, though his energy for this wanes right away and he lowers his head again in dizzied misery. It is his weakness that stays my temper. "All that was asked I answered truthfully. I simply did not volunteer information that was not requested."

 _Ai Elbereth_ he has the tongue of a wizard.

"What would that be, _hir-nin_?" Rossenith asks, eager to find a reason for her miscalculations.

"You had asked about dizziness, pain, appetite, change in outlook or behavior, sleeplessness, numbness or tingling, muscle control, memory loss, loss of consciousness and becoming ill," Legolas replies wearily. Rossenith looks taken aback by his seemingly prodigious memory. Maenor and the more seasoned healers know he has been asked these questions aplenty before, and I know something no one else does – my son has already searched his conscience for his part in all of this.

"I failed to mention occasional disruption in my vision," he confesses. "I've not lost consciousness 'til now – otherwise I swear I would have made mention of it. I was warned recovery includes expectation of lingering discomfort. I thought what I was feeling was part of that and would go away on its own. I would never knowingly jeopardize the welfare of our soldiers and our mission." He lifts his head and gives the flustered healer a grin in a pale attempt of his morbid humor. "Or your job."

It is effective. It always is. She returns a shaky grin. "It is part of that job to be more thorough, _hir-nin_. I should have asked about your sight. I should have recognized that your desire to work did not yet match your body's ability to do so."

Legolas sighs. "No. I should have said something. I know now that I was wrong. I take responsibility. I will happily accept the King's punishment."

He looks at me with blue eyes impossible to deny. Why am I always tasked with the impossible?

He shudders. "I do not even know if my aim was true. I barely saw anything or even remember the last draws. They could have gone wide. I could have hurt someone."

The archery master opens his mouth, clearly about to reassure him that his arrows still somehow met their mark. I throw him a dark look in warning and he shuts it promptly. No one should condone this reckless behavior.

"You could have," I say instead.

"I am so sorry, _ada_ ," he says, before correcting himself and remembering that we are not alone and so keenly observed. " _Aran-nin_. I... I do not know what to say to you or to anybody. I am sorry you were called here in disruption of your day."

He should be sorrier for the poisonous thoughts my mind entertained in my desperate run to reach his side. Was he ill or poisoned? Was he attacked? Was the blow to his head worse than everyone thought? Was he dead? Dying? "Collapsed in the field" was both too much said and also too little. It was too brutally visual, but with no explanation.

"You need not stay," he tells me. "As you can see, things are well in hand."

"More or less," I say wryly.

"May I rise?" he asks the healers, looking chastised.

"Please try," Maenor encourages. His subordinates hesitate, but his certainty is reassuring to me. He watches Legolas' movements with a practiced eye.

Legolas peels off the wet cloth from the back of his head and hands it, along with his flask of water, to one of the attendants standing by. I wave off another about to offer him aid, and I give him my own hand. He reaches for it, and though his palms and fingers are clammy and trembling, his grip in mine is strong. He hauls himself up with my help and is able to stay on his feet when I release him.

I get a better look at him thus. He is pale and wan, and dark rings form beneath dulled eyes. He is uncharacteristically disheveled, with hair tangled from previously laying on the ground and partly wet from the cold compresses. He stoops clumsily for his bow and quiver, but is foiled by one of my personal guard. Legolas lets him have the beloved weapons with a small longing in his eyes.

Maenor steps up to him and raises hands upon Legolas' eyeline.

"Focus on my fingers and follow their movement, my lord," he instructs.

Legolas does so, and it worries me that his brows furrow in concentration and he breaks a sweat at a task so easy and mindless on any other day. Maenor moves his fingers to the far left, and then the far right. Legolas' eyes lose focus here and become more abstract. They almost roll back and he sways. Maenor grabs him roughly by the arm.

"All right, all right," he says soothingly. "Enough of that now."

Legolas shuts his eyes and presses at the bridge of his nose, as if staving off a headache.

"Open your eyes and look forward for me," Maenor instructs. Again, Legolas follows. I do not know if his quick, quiet compliance is from hurting, or to make up for the information he had previously withheld and the trouble the omission is now causing.

Maenor raises a finger again, and this time places it on the far right of Legolas' eyeline, upon his peripheral vision. It was easy sight for most beings, especially for an elf.

"Can you see this?" the healer asks.

"See what, Maenor?"

My hands turn cold.

Maenor frowns, bites his lip, and nods in some quiet decision.

"See what?" Legolas asks again, and one does not need to know him as well as I do to hear the anxious edge in it.

Maenor exhales a careful breath. "Do not worry so much about it yet, _hir-nin_. Tell me – what do you remember just before you lost consciousness?"

Legolas frowns in concentration. "Not much. I had an eye on the targets. I was focusing on the marks. Things became blurry, and then shrank away. It was black, a long time black. Then I woke and there was you. I was already on the ground."

"Was it preceded by pain or dizziness?"

"I felt overheated," Legolas replies. "It was so bright, and I was weary. I have been these last few days but I was expected to be, I thought." He returns to what has been bothering him and what remained unanswered. "What was I supposed to see? Is there something wrong with my eyes?"

"I think you've lost part of your vision," Maenor replies. At Legolas' and I'm sure my own horrified expressions, he expounds quickly. "Temporarily. I'm sorry for the unwise words, my king. I meant to say, temporarily."

"But it's been more than a week since I was hit," Legolas says worriedly. He keeps glancing at me. "Is it getting worse? Should I expect more loss?"

Maenor raises his hands up to appease us. "Visual difficulties and imbalance after a blow to the head are not uncommon. And yes, sometimes these and other symptoms develop well after the injury. I do not believe your condition is worsening in the sense that there is swelling or bleeding inside that could endanger your sight or any other part of you, permanently. But you are certainly not as recovered as we all hoped. I will revoke your release, _hir-nin_. Not even to light duties."

"I will do anything to repair my aim," Legolas says quietly, and I see now where his quiet compliance is coming from – fear of disability, as every warrior might feel in his situation.

"I need to be able to do my work," he adds, enlightening me further. It is not only fear, I realize, but duty. It makes me ache for him.

"Your aim is as true as always," I say, before I can stop myself. I studiously ignore the archery master I had silenced earlier, whose face is impassive but whose eyes are alight.

"Worry not about your bow at this time, Captain," I say more formally.

"I would like to keep him confined in bed for an indefinite period of time," Maenor says. "But I think he will find more rest in his own rooms, rather than in the healing wards. He needs dark and quiet, and a place with little to look at." To Legolas, he says directly, "You need to rest your eyes. I will even discourage reading. For anything you need, someone will wait upon you at all times."

"I am sure someone to check in at intervals will suffice," Legolas says meekly. He is easily embarrassed by the bother to others, especially after the spectacle he thinks he had already made of himself by collapsing at the ranges.

"You just fainted my lord," Rossenith points out. From the corner of my eye, I see my son cringe but the healer is oblivious. "You need someone nearby. If it should happen again while you are alone, say trying to rise to get food or water, you can bring even more serious injury upon yourself. A secondary blow to a head that is barely healed can have disastrous consequences. Disastrous! You can lose your sight, or your life!"

Legolas is looking at me plaintively for rescue. He deserves the punishment of all this anxious attention – including my own – and I am tempted to tell him so. But if our goal is for him to find true rest and so to recover more fully, he will not be able to do that while watched so oppressively. My son injured is so much like an animal in the wild, at times. He likes to keep to his corner and lick his wounds in peace. He emerges only in fighting form, because any sign of weakness can be exploited.

"Someone to look in on him at regular hours seems fair," I declare. Legolas looks grateful, until I add - "If Maenor agrees and the Captain gives his word that he will stay in bed unless accompanied."

Legolas' jaws set stubbornly. But he knows his limited options. It is either this, or be watched like a hawk.

"I give my word," he says through grit teeth.

"Then let us be away," I say.

I excuse the archery master and let him return to his duties, and Maenor orders his subordinates ahead of us, that they may prepare and transfer what Legolas may need for treatment in his suite of rooms. The head of the healing hall, on the other hand, paces my son and I, while the royal guard trails us along our slower way to his chambers.

Before we move they all linger, waiting for me to walk ahead of them according to custom. I do not desire it today, for I would like to see my son walking in front of me. I cannot watch him if he is behind me.

I take him by the arm so that we can at least walk together, and with that, our little procession makes its way forward. Legolas lets me usher him along, and he walks with his head uncharacteristically hanging low. It unnerves me.

I know he is hurting and tired, but there is something else. He seems very brittle today. He is like a dried up leaf at the end of fading, about to be tossed in the wind and crushed underfoot. It could be the concussion sending his thoughts into a tailspin, but he seems to be drowning in it.

We move quietly down the halls of our home. Mornings are busy and the many elves we pass are curious and worried, but avert their eyes and lower their heads in discretion and respect. They bow to their King, and because my son walks with me, I am able to protect him from their unwelcome gaze.

When we reach his rooms it is abuzz with quiet activity. The royal guards take a post at the doors, Maenor confers with his healers, and I am left alone with my ailing son for the first time. I warn away with one hand the attendants who approach as if to aid us, and I lower Legolas to bed myself. He sits at the edge of it, still hunched into himself. His golden hair falls around him, covering his face.

I lower myself down to haunches in front of him. Once he reached the age of majority, my head has never been beneath his. He was my subject, son or no. But this morning I want to see his face. I need to see it.

" _Aran-nin_ ," he protests upon seeing my position from beneath the golden curtain of his locks. He makes as if to slide lower, but I stop him with a firm hand to his lap, keeping him in place.

"Are you feeling worse, _ion-nin_?" I ask him quietly.

He lifts his head to look at me slowly. His eyes are so very, very wide and deep and pooling blue and – I swear I have never seen this before on him – _afraid_.

"The world faded away into black," he says softly, "But I was awake for a long time before my mind drifted. I knew my eyes were open, I could feel them. But there was nothing to see, and I couldn't even tell up from down. I thought I'd lost my sight and senses forever."

I press my lips into a grim line. "Listen to your healers, Legolas. These things do happen. With true rest, we may expect your affliction to be resolved."

He refuses to be comforted. He runs his trembling hands over his face, and rests them over his eyes. "All I could think about was – what use would a besieged land have for a blind archer?"

I have no good and ready answer for this, for he and I have never stood at this crossing. He would get hurt and sometimes it would be me, but we were always either going to live to fight again or die – never in a sense, in between. Never were our abilities to be taken from us.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly into my silence. "I'm sorry. I am being melodramatic. It's unproductive and excessive. It is a waste of all our time-"

I cannot let him think this. He can have his fears, the gods know he already entertains too little of it as it is. I reach for his face and cup it in my hands. There is something he must know.

"You aren't just an archer, Legolas," I tell him quietly, but fervently. I hear activity has died around us, and I know the healers and attendants will want their way with him soon; they are just trying to find the courage to disrupt me.

"You are a fighter," I say, "you are a warrior from the top of your golden head to the tips of your toes. Whatever happens, whatever you lose, you will find a way. And absent that – you are _my_ light. Do you understand? You are _my_ sight. You will see me through the wars and battles and the darkest night."

He gives me a small smile, and those blasted eyes of him are pooling and brilliant, dancing with inner light.

"Now if it pleases the Prince," I tease him, "perhaps he may finally lay down and fix this ailment."

I rise to help him undress. The removal of his tunic is all that he tolerates before he puts a hand over his eyes and sags against me. He is dizzied again, and I decide he may keep his undershirts for now. I lower him to his back, and he lifts his booted feet up off the floor. An attendant scurries closer to rid him of his shoes and clear away the discarded clothes.

He sighs heavily in relief when his head lands upon his pillow. He looks so slight against the thick, pristine white sheets. His malfunctioning eyes roll back and flutter closed. It alarms me, and I shoot out a hand to his forearm, which in turns alarms him. He jolts awake and looks at me miserably.

"I am just weary," he says.

"I know," I reply, and I am trying to understand it but I cannot. The mind knows one thing and the heart feels another. They do not always align.

"You should go," he tells me softly. "I know you have a lot to do."

"I cannot leave with you thus," I confess.

"And I cannot rest with you hovering," he teases.

"I can command it of you."

"You wouldn't be so cruel," he says wryly, "as to burden me with that now, would you, _aran-nin_?"

Our lighter tones give the elves around us the cue to come closer, and I step back and let them do their work. The healers come forward with their examinations, cold cloths and draughts. The attendants take away all that is used or no longer needed. Someone offers me a chair and a cup of tea.

I watch, and quietly bear the pit in my stomach when Legolas falls asleep amidst their ministrations with his eyes closed. The healers are not alarmed, and so I keep my seat and watch them move his pale, slack limbs around however way they wished. They divest him of his outside garb and help him to comfortable bedclothes. They comb his tangled hair and arrange it away from his face. They even position his arms and legs on the bed, and place a light blanket over him. I cannot escape the thought – it looks like funeral tableau.

They back away from him at last, and lessen the candlelight around his room. Maenor approaches me and lowers himself to a knee that we may speak.

"His eyes are closed," I murmur. It bothers me.

"We gave him medicine to ease his discomfort and encourage healing sleep," Maenor replies. "It will be long and deep, but one that he needs."

"He worries about losing his sight," I say; that I worry about losing _him_ , I do not have to.

"I admit some form of permanent or long-standing damage is not outside the realm of possibility," Maenor answers, "but it is unlikely. The disruption in his vision on the right eye is giving us a better idea of what is happening inside him. If he presents no other symptoms, my king, sufficient rest should first prevent things from getting worse, and eventually, to resolve everything. But he requires serious rest, I cannot emphasize it enough. His setback today has proven it is sorely needed."

"He will cooperate," I guarantee. "He understands what is at stake, and if he compels me, I will command it of him." I narrow my eyes in thought, and look at the sleeping warrior elf on the bed. "But I do worry about that impatience of his."

Maenor, as head of the healing wards, will have a unique understanding of this side of my son. He is both seasoned and gracious enough, however, to neither agree nor disagree with me.

"I suppose you would want us to find him something suitable to do during his confinement here," he says cautiously. "Something to keep him occupied without straining his eyes or his head. I have a few fine readers, _aran-nin_ , they can come in and read for him books of his own choosing. I am sure he would not be averse to some entertainment as well. Musicians, and the like, nothing too loud. He is quite fond of music. But these can be engaging only for so long. I have a few other things in mind, if the King permits." He winces. "I cannot promise my lord Legolas will find it very engaging or gratifying, but it would be better than nothing."

I am intrigued, and I quirk my brow at him to expound on this.

"One of our more time consuming and less favorable tasks include the cutting, folding and packing of clean binding cloths," he says, and he looks horrified at himself for suggesting menial work to my son the Prince, and a Captain in his own right.

"I think this is most agreeable," I say. He seems surprised, but really, anything that keeps Legolas amused in his bed sounds very good indeed. It reminds me of when he was an elfling, shortly after his mother –

I was running a kingdom and raising a child who was impatient to grow and do things for himself. He wanted to sing and talk so he babbled. He wanted to run so he stumbled. He wanted to try everything immediately. Keeping him occupied was a task that ultimately fell upon everyone he encountered in the Realm. I would go about my business and as I walked around I would see him doing random things when he wasn't in classes or at training. I watched him gather fruits in the allotments, wash vegetables in the kitchens. He's polished silver and leather, has cleaned swords and maintained weapons.

"He has the most able hands," I say softly, before I catch myself. In a more commanding tone I say, "But do prepare to have more binding cloths than you might need, and make sure to line up similar tasks once you've had your fill of his share. He is a single-minded worker when bored, but an overcompensating contributor when he feels he is malingering here. Have him polish boots, I care not. Neither will he."

"I will make arrangements," Maenor says. I wave him away and he scurries off. With his exit, I am more or less alone with my son. There are guards at the doors and healers preparing their wares in the anteroom outside his sleeping chambers, but we are more or less alone here.

I push my chair closer to his bed, and it is still too far. I push closer, until my knees knock upon the hard wood of where he lies, and it is still too far. Even if I lay beside him, I know it would still be too far. It is too far because his eyes are closed. It is too far until I see them open and settle on me and shine again with confidence and humor.

 _You are my light_ , I had told him, and so in a sense, the stars are veiled for me today. But he will heal, and he will shine again.

THE END

April 4, 2018


	2. 2: The Fetcher

_Hello friends,_

 _ **Thanks so much to all who read, followed, favorited, PM'd and especially all who reviewed the first installment to "The Halls of My Home," the one-shot "Bed Rest."** Shout out to AndurilofTolkien, AraneltheSilvan, cheetahluke, Guest, Hawaiichick, Lord of the Gauntlets, nimruzir, Spiderwiz14 and SuicidalQueen. Your reviews and constructive comments are really instrumental to inspiring writers both to get work done and find the courage to share them. I am not the most prolific reviewer myself and I am trying to rectify this, so I would just like to say how grateful I am that you are so generous with your time and thoughts._

 _I was going to wait a few days longer to post this, but hey it's the weekend and at any rate, the story is not exactly new. **The second installment in "The Halls of My Home" series is "The Fetcher," which previously appeared as a bonus mini-fic at the end of my fic, "Walking Wounded." There are a few edits** , nothing quantitatively big but I think it adds some meaning in a few words. Essentially though, I am posting this here for organization and formality, and in case those who did not read my Afterword after "Walking Wounded" missed the bonus story at the end of it :) I hope you like it either way. As always – comments and constructive criticism are welcome :)_

* * *

 **"The Fetcher"**

 _Legolas' POV: When Thranduil is injured, it is a given that Legolas would temporarily take over his duties as King. But the younger elf takes over an unexpected role too._

* * *

Even for the late hour, the healing wards are unnaturally quiet. The flurry of activity that keeps it buzzing like a hive on all hours of the day has petered off to quiet shuffling and careful, considered movements. The healers speak in hushed tones and even ailing soldiers half-mad with their pains manage to keep their anguish to themselves.

I grimace in sympathy as I walk past their beds. Many are sleeping, some with faces contorted in repressed misery. Others are awake and nod at me as I move forward. We've worked together and I know them all, and it is tempting to sit by and inquire of those who are still aware. But I think things would be better all around if I simply strode forward and accomplished the task ahead of me – the final task of my impossibly long day - promptly.

The sooner I can fetch the King and transfer him to his own chambers, the sooner everyone here can find rest.

Thranduil's continued presence in the ward is keeping everyone on their toes. No one wants to disturb the King. No one wants to hamper his recovery. No one wants to show him weakness, especially since he himself is silent and stoic despite his pains. But once I bear him away from here, the healers can be as harried as they wish, and those ailing can finally moan and cry to ease their suffering. Perhaps my impervious father can rest easier in the privacy of his own space too, though I suspect the stoicism is not a show for him, but rather, ingrained.

It is not common practice at all that King would be sent to the wards rather than be treated in his own suite of rooms, but he had been brought into the stronghold steps from Mandos' Halls and time was of the essence. I made the decision to bring him straight to where the healers and all their necessary wares were immediately at hand, and to keep him here until his body regained strength enough to tolerate a move.

What I should have foreseen, however, is that by the time he had, he'd also regained the stubborn streak that immediately got him refusing to be transferred around, carried in a litter. And so here we still are. He will leave the healing wards only by his own power.

The ward is long, and all the occupied cots are massed toward the doors I just entered. Row upon row of unoccupied spaces separate them from where my father rests, secluded at the end of the hall in the shade of a large alcove covered by thick curtains. I've stayed not a few times here myself.

I pause before two of the Royal Guard stationed at the curtains and wait to be announced to the King, but they step aside immediately and part the curtains for my entrance.

"He has been waiting for you, my lord," one of the guardsmen whisper.

I remove the circlet from my head and turn it in my hands as I step forward and approach the King. I am not surprised to find him sitting up in a neatly-made bed and surrounded by paperwork. He's been in confinement here for the last week, and traces of the productivity he refuses to ease back from, even in injury, are everywhere – ink pots, papers, books and maps.

"You kept your King waiting," he says, not even bothering to look up at me from some apparently pertinent reading material.

"I cannot apologize," I say boldly - I know he kids. Somewhat. Sometimes. "I was immersed in the business of the King, upon the King's own bidding, after all."

He lifts his head up at me, then. His eyes are cloudy from lingering ailment, but his gaze is as piercing as ever.

"This late?" he asks with one brow raised.

"I am not so quick to conclude Our affairs as you," I point out, "I am still learning."

He clucks his tongue in displeasure. "Something we must remedy, then. I've long since feared your exposure to the command of your people has been too limited to the battlefield. These are the times we live in of course and yet, as is plain to see, you are needed for concerns of a more domestic nature as well, especially in the event that I am incapacitated or even killed."

I do not like the topic, so I move around it. "In the subject of learning, perhaps the King might find use in new knowledge too. Ducking, for example."

He is unamused. "Legolas..."

I sigh. "I understand and I will happily subject myself to any lesson you see fit, _aran-nin_ , but only to please you. I am content in my knowledge and I do not seek any other post but that of your Prince. I am not ready to be a King nor will I ever be. This Kingdom is nothing without you. I cannot even imagine your absence here."

"What you say is a failure _ion-nin_ ," he tells me, tone clipped, "not a compliment. The Kingdom must endure, always. If it cannot survive beyond me, I have failed it. You must be ready to take the crown at a moment's notice, Legolas. Things can change in the blink of an eye. They have for me, when I lost my own father. You must also recognize the possibility of losing-"

I do not like talk of this. I raise my hand to silence him, and it surprises the both of us. I am still holding the circlet I removed upon entering the room, and the King's eyes narrow upon the crown, almost thrust toward his nose.

"You are always so quick to remove that," he observes, flatly.

"It constricts my head."

"It seems the Prince is convinced the smiths have botched its making and need reminding of-"

"Perhaps figuratively," I growl in defense of our craftsmen, "it constricts me, only in a manner of speaking." I shove it back on top of my head.

His eyes light up and I realize, belatedly, he is teasing. He reaches forward and brushes stray strands of hair from my face, dislodged from my braids by the violent return of the detested circlet. The barest tips of his fingers brush the skin on my forehead, but I feel it to the core of my bones. We seldom ever touch lately. Only in injury and fear of loss do we ever find ourselves here, like this.

"And they say it is I who is ill-tempered," he murmurs.

I snort at him, and he takes his hand away. I still feel its warmth branded across my head though, and it is far more weighty than any crown.

"The healers say you are well on your way to recovery," I report to him, "and that they expect no lasting damage from your injury. But 'recovering' is far from 'well,' you would be best served to remember. One is the absence of hurt, the other the presence of strength. You are not the latter yet, quite far from. They allow your transfer back to your own chambers, but you are prohibited from leaving it for another week at least. Visitors will be restricted, and you are not to tax yourself in any conceivable way."

I realize quickly that I've used the wrong words. No one 'allows' or 'prohibits' Thranduil anything in Thranduil's own Halls. His jaws are set and his eyes are aflame.

"I will re-phrase," I say quickly, and I stifle a laugh at my own nervousness.

"Oh please do try," he dares me.

"It pleases the healers to confirm the King's speedy recovery," I scramble, "and they delight in the knowledge of your enduring, unwavering strength. In accordance with the express wishes of his majesty, arrangements have been made for his prompt transfer back to his own chambers. They only regret the inconvenience that you've had to wait and suffer being here so long. They humbly request that you keep to chambers and refrain from seeing what is otherwise sure to be a deluge of visitors both inquiring upon the health of the King and also urgently needing his wise counsel."

Thranduil barks out a laugh, finding as I hoped he would, the rapid escalation of flattery and decline of sincerity to be amusing. "That silver tongue of yours has you slithering away to a merry escape again, Legolas. I might make a diplomat of you yet."

I smile at him indulgently. I like the sound of his laugh, and how his eyes shine when he smiles in earnest. It is not a common sight, not in our besieged land, not for the King who must always seem mighty and infallible, not for a father who always has to send out his son to war. As a matter of fact, our nighttime walks from the healing wards to our private chambers have become a tradition of sorts, except usually it is the other way around.

I would return from patrol injured, and head to the healers for treatment. If I am not too bad off, the King would find time to see me only at the end of the day, upon conclusion of all his other business. If I am well enough, we walk home together – to the wing of Thranduil's Halls housing the royal residence. If I am not, he lets me rest where I am and returns the next night either to visit with me again or walk me home.

For the past week it's been I doing the Elvenking's work for the Kingdom and similarly, I've been doing all the things he used to do for me whenever I was the one ailing. I've been visiting every night, right until this one, when I can finally bring him home with me.

"Anything here I should be looking at?" I remember to ask, of the paperwork strewn about.

"There are no pressing matters here that demand a King's attention," Thranduil says, in reference to me, I realize belatedly. "I am fully aware I've been sent the lighter missives in a bid to humor me, _ion-nin_. Whatever needs doing, I am certain you have it well in hand. The only thing I need from you now is to bear me away from here. It's been torture enough for everyone."

My brows raise. Ah, he is aware of his effects, but I really should not be so surprised. He is the most astute elf I know. He rises from his seat, and I hover nearby to make myself available. I do not reach for him to offer assistance, he could never suffer it gladly. I wait to be held, and he does reach for my arm. Just as the healers said, he is recovering but still unwell.

He lands on his feet beside me, and I fold my arm so that his fingers are locked by my elbow. We begin our walk forward. Ada is in lighter, less formal robes to my relief, and I am able to step around the fabric as I would never have been able to do if he were garbed in the more regal fashion he prefers when he is better.

The curtains part for us even before I open my mouth to order it done. Father's guards are truly attentive. We step through, and the two elves follow us a few steps behind as we make our way down the length of the healing ward.

The healers stop whatever they are doing and lower their heads, and the ailing soldiers who are awake stir to attention before the King dissuades them from doing any harm to themselves with a raised hand. He returns their nods regally and efficiently, and in moments we are well out of there.

The Halls are quiet and emptied save for the occasional night guard and the two elves discreet and soundless behind us. The stronghold has always been vast and never feels full, but on nights like this they feel especially hallowed. It is cavernous, and the dim yellow torches cast such long, beautiful shadows of our winding ways and towering columns.

I walk quietly beside my father, and I feel him relaxing his grip on my arm but keeping it there. Being out of the healing wards and into this more open space after days of confinement is reviving him somewhat, a feeling I can readily sympathize with.

"You've conducted yourself very well these last few days, Legolas," he tells me quietly. "I regret the circumstances upon which you are forced to display your talents to me, but I am heartened by what I've seen. You are ready and able to stand in my place, no matter what you might think."

I sigh and shake my head. I do not want to speak of this. I do not want to ponder his loss. I do not think I can bear it. Even from where I allow it only at the barest edges of my mind, the memory of having found him near death makes me tremble. If I let it come closer it will break me. I am already motherless. I refuse to be made an orphan.

"You're shaking," he notices, and he stops walking to look at me searchingly. "Are you well? Wasn't it only days ago that it was I fetching you from here?"

I set my jaws in displeasure. It was the same old story, until it wasn't. I was hurt but healing. The King had come to me in the wards at night and brought me back to my rooms where I was expected to stay for at least three days' rest. It was why Thranduil had to come out of his stronghold, to a diplomatic duty that had originally been meant for a lesser royal like me. His party was ambushed and he was nearly killed. Upon hearing the alarm, no one stopped me from leaving my rooms sooner than the healers felt prudent. I rode out, and it was I who found him. It was I who carried him home. He was pale and limp and bleeding and insensate. There was nothing of the elf I knew, nothing but a shell, he was halfway gone-

I step away from him to spare my shaking body from further scrutiny, but I step back toward him when I remember my role as _adar's_ crutch, one of the few he allows to be thus. I regret it to the core of my heart when his hand does not return to my arm.

"Legolas," he says more firmly in demand of an answer, "Are you well?"

"I am well," I say evenly, but from the disbelieving look on his face, I decide to give him a little bit more of an answer. "I am only weary." It isn't untrue.

"Do you need the attentions of the healers we've just left?" the King demands, "Ai, you've barely recovered and we've thrust too much upon you."

"Peace, _adar_ ," I implore him. "I am well enough. It is..." I hesitate. "It's just that..."

I do not want to talk about this. I do not. But if the consequence of keeping my silence is that I would be dragged back to the healing ward for an unnecessary examination, and for the King to force himself into wellness so that he may resume his duties and let me rest, then I can very well open my mouth to speak.

"I was the one who found you," I say, and my voice is suddenly ragged. "You wouldn't remember. I pressed my hand to the injury on your chest. I felt your heart thundering through, fighting hard but also, inextricably, pumping out your blood. I can still feel the warm wetness of it, and your pulse in my palm, like a drumbeat." I clench my hands into fists at my sides. I am really shaking now.

"It wasn't as bad as all that," the King lies, because I don't think he knows what to say to me. I don't blame him. I don't know what to think.

"I carried you home," I whisper. "I begged you to stay. It was supposed to be me on that trip, and it was supposed to be me who was hurt. It was supposed to be me. I wished it were me."

My father looks away from me, and thus he remembers, as I do, the guards at our backs. I hear them shift and turn away from us. Adar shifts too, and I realize he is shielding me from the sight of our silent, inescapable witnesses.

"There are many things I don't remember," _adar_ concedes quietly. "But the most important thing, I will never forget. While I lay there, I thanked the gods it wasn't you, Legolas. I thanked the gods it wasn't you. It was my only comfort."

A tear escapes my eye, but I blink the rest of them away. I do not want to shame my father or myself further, especially not as I wear a crown of our people.

We resume walking once I've composed myself and the pesky trembling peters off. His hand returns to my arm, but slightly higher up and tighter.

The difference is small but distinct in his warm, powerful grip. He is supporting me this time, not the other way around as we had originally set out. We've walked like this many times before, whenever he escorts me home from the healing wards. I never hold onto him, even when I am still weak and my legs are trembling. He is the King; I let him touch me and usher me forward however way he wills, only as he sees fit. Thus far I've never fallen on his watch. He always knows when to hold me and when to let me walk on my own.

THE END

February, 2018

(Revised April 6, 2018)


	3. 3: A Father Dreams

**hi guys!**

 **Thank you to everyone who has been supporting a deluge of efforts from me lately** , including one-shots for my Mirkwood series of one-shots, _The Halls of My Home_ , and my latest ongoing fic, _The Games We Play_. I've been writing a lot, and it's really through your generosity of time and perspectives that I've been so inspired. Thank you. I hope you enjoy the piece below, which was entered into the most recent Teitho challenge and ended up sharing first place with another entry :) What a lovely contest, run by lovely people who are keeping the fandom thriving. As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome! And without further ado, _A Father Dreams_ :

* * *

 **"A Father Dreams"**

 _Thranduil's P.O.V.: While journeying through the Misty Mountains, the King of Mirkwood's party becomes the target of a vicious hunting pack of orcs. "I have a plan," Legolas says, and Thranduil knows his notoriously ingenious son well enough that these four words just about terrify him._

* * *

Night falls and I dream about him, as I sometimes do in precisely this way – my son stands at the head of a mighty column.

Legolas is wearing the colors of my house, and outfitted in dully gleaming armor. The formidable metal is well-kept and beloved, but has the patina of use. There are scratches on its surface, dents buffered out, miniscule cracks from innumerable repairs that even the most skillful craftsmen could no longer hide. He refuses to change it – he likes how it feels, he says, how his body had made a home of it.

In my older dreams, the armor he wore to this unknown, imagined battle was gleaming so brightly it was almost luminous. Legolas was younger then, and I had greater freedom to ascribe my own plans and wishes upon him. Now that he is a more seasoned warrior, he has his own ways and I know him better. He will, for example, not suffer stiff, shiny, new armor; he barely suffers them at all. In a few years, I might have no choice but to dream of him in nothing but the barest protection afforded by leather pauldrons. I hope he finds the heart to at least wear these. He shouldn't sacrifice his safety for dexterity, as he is wont to. He shouldn't be exposed to any more danger than is necessary. He shouldn't tempt fate so much –

" _Ada_?"

This single word jolts me to wakefulness. I did not even realize my eyes have fallen shut. I am lying on cold, hard, jagged ground. It is a startling contrast to the smooth, hewn rock that surrounds the walls of this gods-forsaken trap, from which there can be found no purchase for a climb. I've been looking up at the hole over my head, the one I'd fallen in from, for endless hours now. Unable to move, I watched the clouds dance, and I watched the sun set and the skies darken. The dim light it lets into my prison is covered by a familiar silhouette.

" _Ada_ , I'm coming."

The shadow vanishes for a long moment, and I wonder if I've been dreaming of Legolas again until I do dream about him again.

I dream of my son at the head of a mighty column. Row after row after row of our finest soldiers flank him, thousands of them in disciplined lines. I concede – it is debatable if they are indeed the finest elven warriors in all of Arda. But what is unquestionable to anyone is that they are the hardiest, by virtue of our constant struggles as a people. My son is the best among them. He wears my crown. The brilliant green of spring leaves twined around the jagged branches look like emeralds on his proud, golden head.

It is a dream I will never see come to light. He will stand before that column with that crown on his head, only when I am dead -if he should bother with it at all. Even the humblest circlet required of him in diplomatic ceremonies, I am hard-pressed to force onto him.

" _Ada_ , I'm here."

He wrests me from my dreams.

He's always wrested me from my dreams.

Not that he wakes me often, but that he keeps re-shaping and re-fashioning them to his own will. He has his own ways now, his own plans, his own ideas. Sometimes a dream is just a dream.

"Legolas," I say, and my voice is gravelly and broken. I raise my hand to touch his face. We seldom ever touch nowadays, but I need to know if he is real. He is warm flesh beneath my palm.

"Your hands are cold," he says softly, taking them in his and rubbing at them to infuse warmth. They cover mine completely, and I wonder when they had gotten so large. The last time I held his hands, his were so small I could have cupped them into my fist. I feel disproportionately bereft when he releases me. He runs his freed hands across my body, feeling for injury.

"The worst of it is the head wound, _hir-nin_ ," one of my companions report. His voice is rough too, and I'd almost forgotten that I am not alone in this prison. There had been an elaborate trap that triggered an avalanche. Our traveling party ran to evade it, only to end up here – another trap. Half the company I was traveling with was lost. I am left with four of the royal guard, two senior ministers, and a healer who always accompanied me on the road.

"How bad is it?" Legolas asks.

"He lost a lot of blood," the healer reports, "and was unconscious for a few hours. When he woke he got sick twice, and was coming and going. He was unresponsive until your arrival."

"Ada, do you know where you are?" Legolas asks, slowly and carefully, as if he was speaking to a dull child.

"I would rather forget," I hiss at him. He almost smiles, and it lightens up his somewhat harried appearance – hair unkempt, face grimy, eyes worn and tired. He is wearing a travel-worn cloak, tunic, leather pauldrons, and a miscellany of weapons secured on belts and quivers. These were the same clothes he had on when we last saw each other – _the last time we saw each other!_

"What are you doing here?" I bark at him, and he winces at my tone. I slap his hands away and force myself up to dangerously shaking elbows. I will not be defied. Although, I do have to suffer the indignity of being steadied precisely by the target of my profound displeasure when I sway where I sit.

He was wearing these exact same clothes the last time we saw each other. The last time we saw each other... The last time we saw each other, we were saying goodbye.

# # #

 _Legolas had just finished making his farewells to our hosts in Imladris, and was about to take the journey back home. For reasons of security, we never took long travels together._

 _In days as dark as the one we endured in, it was agreed that the succession in our Realm had to be protected at all times. In the event that one of us was lost, there always had to be someone left to rule. Thus, we always traveled different routes, at different times._

 _Coming from Elrond's House, it was agreed that Legolas would leave earlier and take the longer route over the Misty Mountains – the Redhorn Pass. I would depart later and take the High Pass, and we could expect to return home at roughly the same time. Each way had its own perils, but that could be said of any road in all of Arda nowadays._

 _Saying goodbye to Legolas was neither new nor uncommon. We've both been needed together at various points of the earth before, and we would travel to and from such destinations apart. But something about this trip was nagging at me, and I couldn't quite understand why but I did not want to let him out of my sight._

 _"The discussions this summit proved especially fruitful, don't you think?" I asked him, before Legolas could open his mouth and say goodbye._

 _Legolas' brows furrowed in puzzlement at the delay, but was as quick to indulge me as always. "We covered a lot of things in such a short span of time," he agreed, and it was plain truth._

 _High level discussions between delegates of our kingdom, and that of Rivendell and Lothlorien, were held every few yen, as the need arose. The last summit had been at our own Realm and the one before that was held at Lothlorien. This most recent one hosted in Imladris had secured a miscellany of deals for trade, security, information sharing, and – the brainchild of Legolas and the twin sons of Elrond he'd long been fast friends with – an education exchange for elves on all sides to learn each one's warring skills, healing arts and other specialized knowledge._

 _"I am especially impressed by your initiative,_ ion-nin _," I commend him. "The running of a Kingdom, it becomes you."_

 _Legolas fidgeted. He did not like this kind of succession talk, and I think my sudden desire to linger worried him._

 _"What's on your mind,_ adar _?" he asked. "Perhaps... perhaps we can travel home together, just this once."_

 _I was tempted. By the gods, I was tempted to leash my son to my side today, but this feeling was not new too. If I could keep Legolas from going on missions, patrols or distant assignments, I would. But that was not the way of the world._

 _"Don't be ridiculous," I scoffed at him, though mostly I was scolding my own weakness. "You know why this is done. Deviation is unacceptable."_

 _He threw me a helpless smile. "As the King bids it then," he said, lightheartedly. He took no offense at my tone, he seldom did. It's how we both survive. "But if I am to take to the road, I really must make leave of you now,_ aran-nin _."_

 _I let him leave. I watched until the smallest speck of him vanished from my sight._

# # #

"What are you doing here?" I ask again.

"We took the Redhorn Pass as planned," he replies. He turns away from me and busies himself with a pack filled with miscellany. I hear soft padding of cloth, the slither of rope, the clinking of tins and bottles. I do not know what else he has in there. He draws out a flask, and the sweet smell of miruvor is quick to encapsulate the small, confined space. He presses it to my lips, and I take the barest of sips. It will be needed by many.

"Something felt wrong," Legolas continues. He gives me a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, before he begins to pass the flask around to our compatriots. "There were too many obstacles along the way – an avalanche of rocks, a freshly fallen tree, a collapsed foot path... one or two can be expected in such a journey but it was soon apparent to us that we were being herded somewhere. We were being hunted."

Everyone listens to his recounting of events, while carefully sharing the restorative drink. I myself am feeling more revived by it, after hours of dizzied drifting.

"We took extra precautions with scouting," Legolas goes on, "We lost one of our soldiers thus. He triggered a trap. But his life had purchased for us the barest foreknowledge that kept us alive. When the attack came, we were as ready as we could be under the circumstances. We found a defensible post and drove the yrch away at the cost of a few more lives."

"That does not answer my question," I point out.

"Patience, _aran-nin_ ," he replies playfully, as he sometimes does when evading my hardest questions. "That was over two weeks ago. We were halfway home and so the farthest distance from any help. We suspected the orcs must have had a similar plan in place for you, and we kept one of the enemy alive for questioning. He was only all too pleased to brag about their plans."

The Intelligence Minister who had traveled with me, Lastor, is intrigued by this news. "So the orcs knew the King would be on the road. They were prepared for him."

"I think some of them have wizened up to the summits held over the years," Legolas reports. "Of course they knew not when precisely our travels would be, but the traps were set and waiting. Someone new leads them, someone with ambitions."

"It was only a matter of time," Lastor says gravely. "Every once in a while, there emerges a great goblin. Azog and his spawn, Bolg, for instance."

"This beast who threatens us now is called the Bastard Brother of Bolg," Legolas says.

Lastor is aghast. For an intelligence minister and an elf of high standing in my court, he is prone to theatrics, especially for information that piqued the insatiable curiosity demanded of his job. "Do they have constructs of marriage, such that one may be called a bastard?"

Legolas finds it funny, because that is how he is. "Maybe it just sounds better, my lord. At any rate, upon discovering their plans, we split what remained of our forces. The fastest were sent home to gather reinforcements. The injured we sent with a security detail to Imladris. We spared a brave messenger to venture alone to Lothlorien – they must be told that their own parties are likely in danger. The best and the fittest, we sent to our King."

He finishes with a small bow. I realize he'd been calling me _adar_ until now. I suspect it is also the only time he remembered his duties to his King, rather than his love and worry for his father.

"You are still not supposed to be here," I tell him darkly. I have no doubt he is among the best of whichever group of warriors he happens to be with and so would be the first to be sent to aid me. But he is also the Prince, and we cannot both be targets. The security of our Realm cannot be so at risk.

"Neither of us are supposed to be here," he tells me, "So perhaps it is best to rise, yes? By luck, you must have set off the trap shortly after it was last checked, to have been spared the despicable company of our enemies for so long. But night has fallen, and the vile creatures that arranged for your capture here is sure to return to collect their bounty. We must make haste."

His hands hover around me uncertainly. He had held my hands but moments ago, and checked me for injury after that. I realize now that he had touched me unthinkingly, perhaps in some panic from the ghastly sight of his father unmoving on the ground. I can readily sympathize. But now that he has seen his King is relatively well, he hesitates.

"If I may, _aran-nin_..." he says haltingly.

I give him a short nod, and he exhales in relief as he pulls me up carefully to a knee. The world spins. It is dark and the lines of rock are blurry and indistinguishable. His hands on my arms are the only anchor.

He waits for me to settle, before pulling me to my feet. He keeps me standing by bracing my right arm over his left shoulder. He keeps his main fighting hand free.

Legolas ushers me to a thick rope hanging in the middle of the hole we had fallen through. He plants me onto swaying feet, and peers at me closely to check if I can keep them.

"Do what you must," I growl at him.

He gives me a wicked smile. He looks like a wild man, in this better light right beneath the hole. He seems at the edge of control. I can see it in his eyes, all the emotions lodged there and carried for weeks now. He bears the realization of his peril. He bears grief and guilt for his soldiers lost. He carries hypervigilance against day after day of danger and potential attack. He carries worry for me, and the desperation to get here. There is relief that I am alive, and determination to see us home. There is, inextricably, exhaustion too. He is tight as a coiled wire, about to spring. The grime on his face isn't all travel grime too – I see a bloom of bruises, and a healing wound on the side of his head.

He suffers my observations as he winds the rope deftly about my torso, before giving a quiet signal up to his allies aboveground to lift me. He watches me rise, inch by inch by inch. He turns away to help others only when hands reach for me on higher ground.

I sit on the grasses, beneath the stars again. I watch as all of us who had fallen are hauled out of the hole by two of Legolas' royal guard. My son, expectedly, emerges last. I release a breath I did not know I was holding.

He frees himself from the rope quickly and walks to me. "We cannot linger here. We've secured a small camp from which we can determine our next course of action. I am no longer the highest rank in this company, _aran-nin_ , but I request you let me assume command until I can get us there safely."

He isn't wrong. He is our Prince and therefore second only to me. But in the field of battle, he has the humility, discipline and ultimately, wisdom, to defer to others' earned rank and experience. He has become a captain on his own merits, but is still outranked by the more seasoned soldiers and ministers that surround me when I am on the road. The truth is, though, we are all bedraggled at the moment, looking blearily up at the open skies. He will know best.

"It is done," I say, and the words are simple but his sense of responsibility and willingness to be accountable, even as he suffers from obvious physical and mental exhaustion, warms me as a father. It gives me the strength to sit taller and push to my feet.

"Lead the way, Captain," I command him.

# # #

There aren't enough horses and it is just as well, as some of us are unable to keep our seat for long – myself included.

My son shares his steed with me. I sit in front of him, and lean my head against his strong, broad shoulder. If I had been able to keep my head straight, I would have blocked his sightline by virtue of the difference in our height. I think it always irked him somewhat, as he came of age and stayed just as he was. It is, however, a minor comfort for me – he has made quick work of the feats I've set in training, after all. The height advantage, the gods at least spared for me.

We ride quickly. I am lulled by the movement, and it pushes my discomfort to the edges of my awareness.

I dream of my son again. Again, he is at the head of the column. Unlike tonight, he is clean, steady and unhurt. He looks formidable, like a conqueror. He is beautiful and terrifying.

"I thought I lost you, _ada_ ," he whispers in my ear. His arms tighten around me. He is a gentle soul, and he takes the dream from me again.

# # #

Legolas takes us to another cave, and by the barely-suppressed humor on his face, he recognizes the irony of it.

The cave is well-hidden; anyone would have missed it if they were not looking. Its entrance is on the side of a narrow, steep ravine with intermittent streaming water, obscured by thin aerial roots from trees above, the branches of a weathered and long fallen log, and large boulders we had to maneuver around. The hole is small, but the space inside is large and deep. It is a livable space. Air stirs inside from a complex network of cracks and holes. There is even a small body of water inside, fed from an unknown source in the mountains.

"How in the world did you come by this?" Lastor asks. My intelligence minister is astonished again.

"The topography seemed ripe for cave systems," Legolas answers as he helps me settle on a dry spot near the water. The healer in our traveling party sits beside me and prepares his wares. "It is the limestone. We were on the lookout for steam coming from entrances. The air is warmer in the caves, you see, and the cold of the mountains makes steam coming out of blowholes easier to spot."

My intelligence minister looks at me pointedly. I narrow my eyes at him in irritation. I am too tired to resume a conversation that we've had all too many times before.

We make a respectable, makeshift camp of the cave. Watch assignments are arranged, and we deliberate our next course of action over hot tea and lembas. I feel my body slowly regaining its strength.

"We believe the traps have been set long ago and so have no constant watch upon them," Legolas shares. "The enemy is unaware of precisely when we would by and which route we would take – they only knew we would use the paths, sooner or later. They have been triggered now and so they are aware of us, but are perhaps still massing their forces to attack. It means we have some time."

"But the question is," says Lastor thoughtfully, "Time for what. Do we hold this position until our reinforcements arrive? Do we seek something more defensible? Do we attempt to escape, not knowing how many pursue us and if there are other traps set along the way?"

"This isn't a defensible position," our war minister, Brenion says. He was hurt as well, and has been quiet until now. "This is a tomb. If we are found here, our backs are against the wall, not that we have very many left of us well enough to put up a good fight. They may even choose to simply trigger a land or rock slide and block the entrance, burying us until we are dead. I am opposed to staying."

"Perhaps we wouldn't be found," Lastor says, but even he does not sound convinced. Sometimes he contradicts the war minister out of habit. They've exchanged heated words before.

"I wouldn't venture to go out and attempt to find another place," Legolas says quietly. "We took long enough finding this one."

"So the choice is either to hold our position or make a hasty escape," Lastor concludes.

We fall into silence. Legolas is chewing at his lip in thought, and his brows are furrowed. He blinks, and I see him making calculations in his mind. He takes a deep breath before speaking, and I find myself doing the same.

"I have a plan," he says, and I know my notoriously ingenious son well enough that these four words can terrify me.

Lastor leans in closely, intrigued by what he has to say.

# # #

 _It was late, and we were debating assignments for the fresh crop of warriors to come out of training. On most days it was an easy task, almost rote, and it did not have to involve me. But my War Minister and Intelligence Minister were determined to fight about one particular soldier. I'd heard all manner of this debate over the past few months and have been putting it off. That night, I could postpone a decision no longer._

 _"Legolas is wasted on infantry," the Intelligence Minister, Lastor, argued._

 _"Wasted!" exclaimed the War Minister, Brenion, placing a hand over his heart. "Wasted! What harsh words you speak, Lastor, of our finest warriors!"_

 _"But he is not just a fine warrior, is he?" the Intelligence Minister pointed out._

 _"You don't know of what you speak. He is my best marksman! He is exceptional in close combat besides, with an eye for strategy. And the soldiers adore him almost as much as the horses do."_

 _"And where would you put him, hm?" Lastor asked. "Light infantry, given his skills with a bow and the horse. Do you imagine him behind the frontlines, sending out the opening volleys in a battle? And when our forces engage, he is to charge forward on horseback, as a shock troop, yes? Before he finally plants feet on the ground and fights with his knives and sword among the multitude? I know this picture well and I can promise you, his ingenuity is stifled there."_

 _"And where would you put him, hm?" countered Brenion. "Half his soldierly life will be on the road. In the times his task is not dull in travel, he is deep in foreign territory under a cloak or hiding under trees and rocks, waiting and watching. You will keep his bow and arrows in a quiver and his knives sheathed. Who is wasting him, then?"_

 _"Now it is you who are slandering our finest," Lastor argued. "You do not mention – foreign territory is often enemy territory. It is a good day when the weapons are sheathed because if caught, our soldier-spies are vastly outnumbered. You also do not mention, when they wait and watch, they do so with the most observant eye, and whatever they discover is pivotal to informing your own strategies. Aside from information gathering, it is this posting that keeps our communication lines open with other Realms. Our messengers daily traverse roads that are far from dull – they are almost constantly perilous. A posting with my men requires singular skills for fighting and survival. It requires intelligence, flexibility, a sense of independence, and inventiveness. Which Prince Legolas has in spades. Of the latter two, occasionally too much. Maybe too much for where you intend to put him."_

 _"But being among infantry is the path to a generalship," Brenion pointed out. "It is the way of Kings and Princes!"_

 _He was an old friend and knew me well. The vision of my son in his gleaming armor and standing before thousands of his soldiers was always close to my mind._

 _"He is not a wartime general," Lastor retorted, and at a dirty look I could not stop myself from giving him, he adjusted. All Kings dreamed of their sons as generals. "At least, not yet. The nature of the war we fight now is different. It is not open, decisive battle and it won't be for a long time. We need his singular skills in this changed environment. Let him cut his teeth with me,_ aran-nin _, and he will find his path to the top of your soldierly ranks not only uncompromised, but made rich by expanded knowledge. Eventually."_

 _"If he lives long enough to get there," Brenion countered, which in turn enraged me. He was quick to amend his words too. "Do not be angry with me,_ aran-nin _, but at your intelligence minister who covets your son so hungrily that he does not bother to speak of the attrition rates of our messenger-soldier-spies. How many do you lose, statistically?"_

 _Lastor grimaced before replying. "One in five is reasonably representative. But this is a sacrifice we ask many families across the Realm to make, every single day."_

 _"I am aware of that," I snapped at him, bristling at the insinuation that I, as King, must be willing to pay the same price – that of the life of my son._

 _I place Legolas on assignment in light infantry, in accordance with the War Minister's advice._

# # #

"We cannot defend this position but we can survive being held within it for a long period of time," Legolas says. "There is air, there is water, we have stores of food. Why don't we block the entrance ourselves? The ravine is steep – there are no shortage of boulders and fallen logs directly above us that we can push over. We can block this entrance. Even if the enemy finds the cave, they cannot enter it."

"This is madness," Brenion says. The soldiers around us, overhearing, look just as properly horrified by what my debatably insane son is proposing.

"The King can stay inside with a few soldiers," Legolas continues, "Fewer is best – the food stores will last longer, if the worst should happen. Those most injured must stay. The strongest will be needed to move he earth above."

"And what of the elves who cannot re-enter the safety of the closed cave?" one of the soldiers asks, "what happens to them?"

"They intercept the arriving reinforcements and take them to where the King was left," Legolas says.

"But will they not also be besieged by the same danger we fear could overcome us if we attempted to escape – potential traps? A determined orc hoard?" asks the same elf. He is unhurt and in fighting form, and knows which assignment would likely fall upon him.

"The traps you might be able to avoid if you know what to look for," Legolas replies. "Our traveling party had encountered many, so we can recognize the signs. It is how we reached the King safely. One of the soldiers who had been with me will join you to watch out for them. As for the orcs – we will need a diversion."

My son looks away from me. It clenches at my heart.

"I think I know how to deflect their attention away from you and away from where the King is safely held," Legolas says. "If they use the traps as a signal for where we are, I think we can use them to provide shall we say, disinformation."

"You want to safely trigger traps in the wrong direction," Lastor says, enlightened, "so that what forces they can gather will mass there and away from everyone else."

"Is there a safe way to trigger a trap?" I ask, tightly. Because I think I know what assignment my foolhardy son plans on taking.

"It is all mechanical," he replies, "pulleys and levers. I know what to look for. At worst... well. They seek a golden-haired royal from Thranduil's House, do they not? I think I can function as a reasonable diversion."

I feel my face frown as if set in stone. The elves around us know to make themselves scarce, even without my having to give voice to profound displeasure. We are given immediate privacy.

"You speak of me as if I were a useless lump of clay," I tell him. "I fight, Legolas. I do not cower in some cave. And you know very well who among us is the best at that."

"Do we really?" he attempts to kid.

"Legolas!"

He sighs and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the blue orbs shine with earnestness. "I will not have you in open combat, not in the state you are in. Besides, to protect the King is to protect the Realm. Please. Let us serve our beloved land, and let us help our kin endure."

"Then is it not also a responsibility to look after your own health?" I point out. "You are a Prince. You cannot speak to me of our responsibilities to succession and discount your own place."

"There are certain things only I can do in this particular instance," he says quietly. "I know where the traps we've avoided are and I know how to look for more. At worst - I am the only one who shares your features and your blood. If I am caught, I have a chance at surviving. They won't kill me outright."

"They will ransom you to me," I say. "And isn't there also considerable danger in that?"

"But you will never give in to their demands," he says simply.

My heart aches that he is so certain. "Won't I?"

"You won't," he says. "Because it won't be right."

I look away from him. "You overestimate me as a King," I say softly, "and underestimate me as a father."

Legolas reaches for me, stops to reconsider, and then does so anyway. He lays a hand upon my hand. "No, _adar_. I am sorry that my words should bring you to think that. I would never believe it." He places both our hands over his heart. "I adore my father – my father – only for the person that he is, because he is both all at once, all the time, and he will always do what is right. Now I beg of you to let me do my job. I swear to you we will succeed.

"Trust me," he implores, "I ask you to trust me, _aran-nin_. Adar." He is invoking whichever incarnation of me would help him get his way, this impossible, irrepressible _elfling!_ of mine.

"Trust me as your son, your subject, your captain, your kinsman. A soldier of the same cloth. A friend who has never let you down. Surely one of these must fit. Trust me."

Two words alone of that mouthful, however, and he should have known he has cornered me. Trust me. If I yield, he gets his way. If I do not yield, I hurt him by my lack of faith. But what was there to argue, really. He has always had my faith, he has always had my trust. I know he can get any job done. But I can never trust him to look after himself. That right, as a father, I cannot ever yield.

"I swear to you, _adar_ ," he says, as if reading my mind, "I will live, if only because I refuse to let you die buried here. We will bring help, and we will ride home together."

I do not trust him to care for himself. But I trust his love for me and in this instance, they are entwined - I will live, if only because I refuse to let you die buried here.

I clench his hand tightly, before releasing it. I give him a nod and dismiss him to his work.

# # #

They work quickly.

I am left with the most grievously injured and the worst fighters. We have water, food, air and each other. We stand away from the cave entrance in case of a miscalculation in the objects thrown or pushed from the top of the ravine to cover us. Little by little – by boulders and rocks, branches and logs – the entrance to our shelter is obscured from prying eyes.

It blocks out most of the light save for a few cracks here and there, ushering in an artificial night.

My son has long since left, but I know he will return and with him, the light. He will fetch the sun for me.

# # #

I dream about him as I sometimes do, but especially now that there is naught else to do but survive and wait, and take mental excursions away from the rocks that have been home to us over the last few days.

Lately, my dreams have shelved the gleaming armor and the mighty column. There is now more mud and grime, and blood - some of it, Legolas' own. He is scarred but standing tall. He stands not with an army, but a handful of fellows against an unimaginable evil. He is weary, but winning. He is unafraid.

At this vision, my blood rushes in my ears, and my heart hammers in my chest. I feel warm and alive, and hungry for ground. I feel incandescent.

I wake to the sound of movement outside of our self-imposed prison. The debris shifts, and a familiar silhouette stands against a backdrop of brilliant sunlight.

I wince against it, but move closer to Legolas' figure. My eyes quickly adjust to the light, and I see him better than before. He is bruised and bloodied, but his gaze is burning.

The sight of him like this is better than any dream.

I engulf him in an embrace, and for a long moment, he stiffens in my arms. It is not our way to begin with, but I feel his body taut like a raw nerve and tight as a coiled spring, still braced for danger after weeks on top of weeks of vigilance. I wish I could knead him until his mind and body can return to rest. I can only hold him tighter, so I do.

He breathes hard against my neck, and when he finally raises his arms to return my embrace, he does so greedily. Hungrily. He is almost clawing at my back. But it is quick; he is exhausted beyond imagining, and hurt besides. His arms fall from me limply, a beat before his knees give way. His weight brings us both to the ground.

I hold him in my arms and look down at his pale face. He is awake and aware, but confused by his collapse and sudden powerlessness. Sometimes, I tell myself, sometimes victory and glory looks like this.

"You did well, _ion-nin_ ," I tell him fervently. "You've redeemed your promise to me."

No one else was lost, I would be told later, and Legolas' plans go off seamlessly, save for the survivable injuries here and there. My son's harebrained rescue plans have succeeded beyond everyone else's imaginings but his own.

We ride home to our Realm together this once, just as we both always wanted to. But because luck smiles on Legolas on most other days, he misses out on this deviation from protocol by being exhausted and listless in my arms for most of the way.

I hold him tight and hoard the memory of it for myself - the scent of his hair, the shape of his head, the warmth of his body, the angles of his bones. I gorge myself on it. I've never wanted a ride to last forever. I relish the closeness of my son.

Especially since my opportunistic Intelligence Minister – a necessary trait for his line of expertise too, I gather – has been looking at me pointedly and eyeing the impossibly gifted son I still held in my arms.

I sigh. I've seen firsthand what incredible things Legolas can do with a bag of tricks and a handful of soldiers. Not quite the shining general in my imaginings, and twice as likely to die on top of everything. But he has his own ways, and I do trust him, just as he had asked me to. This time, I trust that he can make greatness out of anything.

"Give him a few seasons more polishing his close combat skills on patrols," I growl at Lastor, "then I can yield him to you. But he starts as a messenger, do you understand? To a route he knows intimately, perhaps like the one to and from Rivendell."

THE END

March 27, 2018

* * *

 **AFTERWORD**

 **I. On Geography**

So... How long is travel between Rivendell and Mirkwood?

I got a pretty good answer at askmiddlearth . tumblr . com, mostly based on Atlas of Middle Earth. Seems to be 300-350 miles apart in a straight line (which is unlikely to be the case), so it is estimated to be about 400 miles. Bilbo and the dwarves traveled a path that took them 2 months on foot so naturally, experienced elves who are familiar with the territory and on horseback will take much faster. The same web resource noted that Aragorn and the hobbits were able to travel an average of 24 miles a day with Frodo injured and only 1 pony, so at that rate someone like Aragorn with a bunch of inexperienced travelers could have taken just 2 weeks for a 400-mile distance. I made a party of elves in a leisurely rate to be able to go around the same time.

 **II. Timeline of "A Father Dreams" Within The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings; and Within My Own Series of Mirkwood One-Shots**

I imagine "A Father Dreams" as falling before The Hobbit films for the simple reason that Legolas decides not to return home immediately after BOTFA. So in this story, there is still some relative peace that allows other elven Realms to actively engage with each other, and even the Elvenking risks traveling long distances. I had mentioned Bolg and Azog too – but was careful not to indicate if they were living or dead.

As for where this story falls within my Mirkwood-based one-shots, the easy answer is – no larger vision unites them, really :) I had really just set out to write something that can stand alone. I do reuse original characters, but this is mostly out of convenience; I wouldn't have to name another elf having the same position or characteristics, or have to remember them, etc.,. It just makes writing that much easier. One day I might sit down to figure it all out :)

 **III. The Inspiration for "A Father Dreams"**

I wrote this story I think, in five days. I was surfing around fanfiction .net and kept seeing stories labeled as having participated in the Teitho Fanfiction Contest. I've come across the contest before, but I thought that was limited to like, members of a certain forum or community or something so I never joined in. I wanted to increase my readership though, because the LOTR fanfiction community is quieter now than it was when I was active a decade ago (holy smokes a decade ago?), so I checked out the site and saw that the deadline for the most recent challenge is only a few days away. Nothing like a prompt prompt to get a writer going, haha, so I started writing a story inspired by the challenge, "Night."

I never included that first story in the contest, and that piece is currently ongoing and posted in fanfiction . net under the title, _The Games We Play_ because it got too long to put into a contest or put as a one-shot within my Mirkwood series. Anyway, I scrapped _The Games We Play_ as a contest entry and wrote another story, which is _A Father Dreams_ basically as you see it here. I made some minor edits from the contest to this posting, mostly so as to keep the author's anonymity which is a landmark of the Teitho contest. Where the contest entry I used "war minister," here I named him "Brenion," as I've been using in my previous posted fics.

Oh, and this background might explain why _The Games We Play_ , SPOILER(haven't posted these parts yet), shares some characteristics with _A Father Dreams_. If you liked this fic, please give The Games We Play a shot too :)

 _A Father Dreams_ ended up sharing 1st place on the contest with another entry, by the way, which was a new and fun experience for me. Joining was very rewarding, and something I am very much considering doing again in the future. The Teitho group's dedication to the works of Tolkien and to fostering an active fandom are very admirable, and this is something we should all applaud and where possible, support :)

 **IV. My Favorite Bits, and What They Say About the Character**

A. Thranduil Keeps Adjusting His Dreams for His Son

And here it is again, lol. I have a kid and suddenly somehow everything is about him. Seriously, though. You imagine them a certain way, and as they grow and forge their own place in the world, and as you get to know them better, your own vision and understanding of them will change:

 _"He's always wrested me from my dreams. Not that he wakes me often, but that he keeps re-shaping and re-fashioning them to his own will. He has his own ways now, his own plans, his own ideas. Sometimes a dream is just a dream."_

He originally wanted his son to be a mighty general-type. Someone like himself. But I think he realizes here that his son will just make whatever he wishes of himself, and he can only trust that he can make "greatness out of anything:"

 _"Not quite the shining general in my imaginings, and twice as likely to die on top of everything. But he has his own ways, and I do trust him, just as he had asked me to. This time, I trust that he can make greatness out of anything."_

B. Legolas is Notorious for His Flair

I've been pondering how someone of Legolas' stature falls within a hierarchical, militaristic society like that found in Mirkwood. In the films, why is he always so free to roam around on his own and do whatever he wants, at the drop of a hat? How much of his activities need sanction from his father? Does he command a company and if he does, why is he always able to leave them? What is his designation or assignment that it is so malleable?

I thought maybe he has an unconventional role – a messenger-soldier-spy, holding the position advocated by the Intelligence Minister, Lastor, here in A Father Dreams. I think it can also bridge how he eventually enters Imladris as a representative and messenger of his father in The Council of Elrond at the start of LOTR, from how he had been moving with a patrol in The Hobbit films.

I like the thought that his work is analogous to James Bond's or that of a CIA agent, or to some extent, a Navy Seal. He is the best of the best and outside of conventional military hierarchy, so he is able to make autonomous decisions and exercise his creativity. That he is notoriously ingenious is something I like portraying in my most recent fics, and I think this aligns with movie-verse Legolas, who as we know is iconic for his horse stunts, shield surfing, barrel-fighting, mumakil-riding, tower-fighting feats.

This is one of my favorite lines in the story, and it's a bit silly but I like it – _"My son's harebrained rescue plans have succeeded beyond everyone else's imaginings but his own."_ I like the thought that he was the first one to be certain that he can win.

C. Legolas is Wary of Touching His Father

They really don't seem like the tactile type, haha, so I've been slipping that into my fics: _"His hands hover around me uncertainly. He had held my hands but moments ago, and checked me for injury after that. I realize now that he had touched me unthinkingly, perhaps in some panic from the ghastly sight of his father unmoving on the ground. I can readily sympathize. But now that he has seen his King is relatively well, he hesitates."_

I think the inspiration from this comes from something I read about the United Kingdom's royal family; that part of protocol is that they aren't touched. I apply that distance here, that a King like Thranduil is not to be touched unless he expressly allows it, even by his own son: _"Legolas reaches for me, stops to reconsider, and then does so anyway."_

I don't like it just as a quirk, however. I like representing this formality because I like writing instances when they break with the protocol, like when Legolas is worried about his father so much that he rejects or forgets it.

In A Father Dreams, he forgets his father is King too in other ways – like when he keeps calling him ada until he realizes his father is fine so he refers to him more formally again.

D. Thranduil as a King and a Father

I love this line, and I wanted to slip it in so much that I think the fic grew around it: _"You overestimate me as a King and underestimate me as a father."_ As a matter of fact, another fic is being written around this precise thought lol.

Sometimes, being a King and being a Father will diverge. Like, when he has to put his most skilled warrior in a place of danger for the good of the Realm, except that warrior is his own son. Lately, I've been exploring that conflict from the point-of-view of Thranduil, how the difference in his roles cause internal conflict for him. In A Father Dreams, I show how the very subject of that conflict, his own son, reconciles these contradicting roles: _"I adore my father – my father – only for the person that he is, because he is both all at once, all the time, and he will always do what is right."_ For him, it's not about the role, it's about doing the right thing, which he finds Thranduil the person – not the king, not the father – is capable of doing.

E. A Parent Will Always Worry

Thranduil still refuses to let go of his fatherly right to worry for his son: _"I do not trust him to care for himself."_ But this is how he finds it in himself to let Legolas do something dangerous: _"But I trust his love for me and in this instance, they are entwined..."_ because Legolas did promise him, _"I will live, if only because I refuse to let you die buried here."_

F. A Foreshadowing of the Fellowship

I bring up shades of the Fellowship here. First, in how Legolas ends up in Imladris in his role as father and messenger. Second, in the line "He will fetch the sun for me," which borrows a couple of words from Gandalf, regarding Legolas. Finally, it is in Thranduil's vision of his son standing against a great evil with just a small group of people. I like imagining how Thranduil would have felt about Legolas' role in the War of the Ring and this is part of it – _"At this vision, my blood rushes in my ears, and my heart hammers in my chest. I feel warm and alive, and hungry for ground. I feel incandescent."_ I think he would have been proud, and I think he would have understood that his son's heroism won't look like his conventional vision of one – _"I hold him in my arms and look down at his pale face. He is awake and aware, but confused by his collapse and sudden powerlessness. Sometimes, I tell myself, sometimes victory and glory look like this."_

Anyway, I hope you liked it and enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, constructive comments and criticism are welcome, and I hope you all stay tuned to future posts here in "The Halls of My Home," and to my new and ongoing fic, "The Games We Play." 'Til then, have a great creative and RL week to all!


	4. 4: When It Comes

_**hi gang!**_

 _Thank you to everyone who have been reading, following, favorite-ing and especially reviewing my works over the past few weeks, especially for my most recent piece, The Games We Play. Personalized messages will come in a bit, though I apologize these are much delayed. RL has been crazy as of late!_

 _At any rate, what I am posting here is my latest work, an 8,000-ish-word one-shot that placed third in the Teitho contest last May. I am including it here as part of my Mirkwood-based series of one-shots. Like these other one-shots, it is complete and stands alone. It's a bit different so I have some apprehensions about characterization (explanations will come in the usual Afterword), but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome! Without further ado:_

* * *

 **"When It Comes"**

 _Legolas' POV: When King Thranduil falls, it is his son, Legolas, who pays the ultimate price_

* * *

The change, when it came, was deep and immediate.

One moment I was a soldier like any other in the service of our Woods, out on patrol with a handful of other elves. But with five words I was transfigured into something else entirely.

"Close ranks on _hir-nin_!" The messenger, who suddenly burst forth from the trees, exclaimed it with urgency. He was not part of my immediate squad, but one of the soldiers assigned to the eastern outpost that had been my home for the past two seasons. He was our fastest, most able rider, and he arrived trailed by two of the outpost's finest soldiers as well as its commander.

The reason why they were there under such alarming haste, and why I had been called by my honorary title rather than by the lesser, military one of "Captain" that brought me here, dawned on me quickly.

The squadron that I led was just as quick to come to the same realization, and they wordlessly took me from my position on point and surrounded me protectively on all sides.

Two of these soldiers were my royal guards and constant companions. They were always seconded to whichever unit I was assigned to in my military capacity, but their main task was my welfare as their Prince. The two soldiers our yelling messenger had arrived with, on the other hand, were the exact reverse – they were skilled infantrymen within the ranks first, but in the event of a very specific emergency, were expected to immediately switch to royal guard duties.

I knew the protocol well.

It was the practice we had all agreed on and studiously prepared for in case the King was incapacitated or killed. The signal must have gone out. The King was down, and the line of succession had to be secured.

I took a deep breath and accepted their protection. It was my duty to do so.

* * *

They did not bother bringing me back to the eastern outpost to gather the meager belongings I tended to travel with. The first order of business was to bring me to safety, and safety was decreed to be the King's Halls just a few hours' ride away. I was to go there post-haste with my – four, now – royal guard. The rest of the squad, I dispatched back to our eastern base from which we all came.

"Double the guard on the border," I ordered our commander, for our relationship changed as quickly as did my position. He was mine to command, now.

"Yes, my lord!" he said.

We both knew military history, and looked upon any assault on our King only as the first move in a dangerous game. Destabilize a territory's leadership, and then attack. We had to be ready in case of a secondary, larger-scale assault on our people.

"Has word gone out to other outposts?" I asked.

"The emerald smoke from the Halls would have been seen by all," the commander replied. I knew of what he spoke. In the event the King was harmed, it was the signal we had all agreed upon. Its very sight would have triggered the added precaution at all border outposts, just as it triggered my immediate return home.

It was an efficient system; quick, to-the-point and action-oriented. It would have taken messengers much longer to have to run to every distant posting and inform all of what had transpired. But what smoke signals lacked, was precise (or even imprecise) information on how the King – my father – actually fared.

I didn't even know if he was still alive.

I did not ask the commander or the messenger who had retrieved me from my patrol any questions about this, as I did not expect them to have answers. All we knew was that the signal was out. I had to come home to a father who may or may not be alive, and they had to prepare for an attack that may or may not come.

* * *

 _If he's dead, I'd know it._

This single line of thought consumed me as our horses tore through the forest paths our kin knew with relentless intimacy, toward our home.

 _I don't know how, but I'd know it._

Because he's such a presence in the world, I think it would stop, even for just the length of a single second, to ponder his loss. The world would certainly stop, and that is how I'd know it.

Because our hearts are tied together by a thin but powerful string, growing taut every time we are apart, his sudden absence would snap that bond back at me, I think, and it would smart, and it would sting, and by that jarring pain I would know. I would know.

The birds would stop singing, and the trees would weep, and the sun would cease from shining, and by these, I would know.

 _If he's dead, I'd know it…_

The ride back to the King's Halls was fast, but not nearly fast enough for me.

He can't be dead, because I hear his voice in my ear telling me to have some mercy for my horse, it's doing the best it can. He can't be dead because he is also in my ear putting up a case for my minders, who can barely keep up. He can't be dead because I haven't seen him in months, it would be so unjust. He can't be dead because he is the forest, and he is our resistance to the otherwise overwhelming, ever-encroaching dark. He can't be dead because...

...because nothing. Sometimes people just die.

At least, that's what adar would say.

But if he's dead – why does my heart hear him saying it?

* * *

A party of soldiers with fresh, rider-less horses on leads intercepted us halfway back to the King's Halls, both as further protective escort for the rest of the way, but also to speed us along. I left my exhausted horse and took a tempestuous mount eagerly, and spurred him along at twice the speed.

I did not ask the soldiers for news of my father – I did not expect them to have any, not that they would have had the authority to speak of it. If they had both, they would have said something themselves, without my prompting. That was all protocol too. Sometimes, secrecy was important.

Careless spreading of news on the King's dea-health could have real consequences. Misinformation and panic could spread among our people. If we were dealing with an inner betrayal, we also couldn't compromise his security. Whatever had befallen the King, I would simply have to bear not knowing more of it until I crossed the gates of our Halls.

Not knowing was a curse and a comfort. Uncertainty made me anxious, but certainty of, of death would have crushed me. I used to think I would always rather know, but now that the possibility of my father's loss was too close and too real, I realized I could live with not knowing forever, if it meant there was a chance he was still alive. I could live with false hope forever.

I leapt from my horse even before it came to a complete stop at our stables, tossing the reins at the gods knew whoever would care to receive them. The grounds around our gated stronghold were bustling with activity, but no one got in my way. I stalked forward and was met at the entrance by my father's councilmen.

They were in their usual finery, not garbed in mourning black (our people all have mourning black on hand, always). Their faces looked grave, but they did not take a knee and give me a bow of deference. They lowered their heads at me in respect, as they would for a Prince, not a King.

I am not King.

My father is still alive.

My knees shook and my breath caught in my chest in relief. I looked away from them for my eyes had welled up, but to my left and my right and behind me were my guards, and beyond that tight circle were our people, and more people scattered beyond them and so on.

There was no relief to be found anywhere, and I've never felt so alone, surrounded by so many. There was no relief to be found here, so I blinked away at my self-pity and jutted my chin at my unhappiness. There was work to be done.

* * *

"Walk me to him," I said to the councilman nearest me, the she-elf Galliel, our Minister of the Interior. "Explain what happened."

My guards loosened the half-circle they had formed beside and behind me, making room for my father's closest advisers. I assumed father would be in the healing wards and took brisk steps leading in that direction, and no one stopped or corrected me.

"There was a Woodman seeking an urgent audience with the King," she replied as we walked, "He had information, he said. He was old and with a child. They refused to speak with anyone else. _Aran-nin_ saw no reason to deny them, they looked harmless and pitiful really, and we have been peaceable neighbors with their kind all this while after all. They looked ragged and desperate..."

"Go on," I prompted.

"There was a small blade," someone else continued on her behalf. It was our War Minister, Brenion, who looked ready to throw himself on his sword. "Concealed in the miserable nest of the child's hair. It missed my soldiers' efforts at confiscating all weapons on people coming within close proximity to your father. He had shown them mercy, and offered them his hand. The old Woodman retrieved the blade from the child's head and slashed at the King's palm. A trifling thing it was, until it wasn't."

"Poison?" I asked.

He nodded. "Their people and their ways are not known to us, and neither are their vile concoctions. We have no remedy, the child knows nothing and the elderly man has not been susceptible to our efforts at interrogation. In the meantime, the poison... it is taking your father quickly."

My father is alive only for now.

 _Only for now..._

My heart jolted, and I felt it like a kick in the chest. I was surprised no one saw it, or felt it with me.

"It is beyond the capacity of our healers?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, "They will be able to tell you more, but it will boil down to that. We took the liberty of sending riders to seek aid from Imladris and Lothlorien. They may have knowledge that we do not, but it will take time for any help to arrive and the King cannot travel."

I motioned for the Intelligence Minister lingering by my elbow. "I want the hardiest of your spies, Lastor. Esgaroth is a thoroughfare of goods and men and much nearer. They may have a healer or chemist or magician or the gods know what, with knowledge of what ails _aran-nin_. But the inquiries made should be of the utmost discretion. No one beyond our borders must know of the Elvenking's true condition."

My first concern was father's health, but it was not the only one. I then turned toward the preservation of our home. This was what he taught me to do.

"Are the borders secured in accordance with protocol?" I asked the War Minister.

"Double the guards," he reported, "No one in or out except by express permission from you, _hir-nin_. Every soldier is either on duty or on ready call. We brace as if for a secondary assault. The Kingdom is also under curfew."

Our chief diplomat, the Minister of External Affairs, added, "All of our representatives beyond our borders have been recalled, and all missions venturing outside suspended."

"We are placed on wartime rations," shared Galliel, "and securing supplies in the event of a long seclusion. All schooling of the little ones are suspended until further notice."

"We've instituted price controls," said the Treasury Minister, "and have also made special arrangements for the security of our gold and other valuables."

The Commerce Minister had his own report to make. "We have immediately suspended all deliveries and commercial exchange excepting vital supplies like weaponry, or those which would be needed by our healing wards. Nighttime work is canceled in deference to the curfew too."

"How much do our people know about what has happened here?" I asked the Intelligence Minister, upon whose sphere of work information sharing and communications fell.

"The signal of the King's distress and the need for his son to return home was seen and understood by all," he reported, "and there is no doubting the implications of all these restrictions we have imposed."

"Say nothing else for now," I ordered. "They will be patient for a little while yet. They will attribute it to our immediate occupation with the emergency. We can deal with questions later."

We reached the healing halls, and I stopped before the entrance. It was manned by royal guards, and I fully expected – erroneously – that the advisers would leave me be to see my father alone.

"Go about your tasks," I ordered and they dispersed quickly, except for Brenion and Lastor, whose arms I reached for. "My lords."

They immediately turned rapt attention my way.

"I wish to see my father," I said, "but I expect you to delegate tasks to your lieutenants and return immediately to me. And please find my valet and tell him I will need my formal mourning clothes."

They nodded without question, even as the last had been a strange and sort of macabre request indeed, and ran to do as I bid them. They were elderly statesmen, elves I knew and admired as a child and still looked to for expertise in my majority. Now they rushed to follow the word of a Princeling, even the occasional crazier instructions. I felt like a fraud, a poor copy of _adar_. But this was better than what I would have been, if the King Thranduil did not see it fit to prepare me for this occurrence.

The bitter truth was, elves were immune and immortal until they simply were not. By poison or blade or bow we still got hurt and died, and in times as rough as these, hurting was common and death was a constant visitor. Father did not want me to be a scared, scrambling, elfling prince if something happened to him and I had to take his position, so he made sure plans were in place and all I was expected to do was follow along until I knew better how to do things in my own way.

 _"I don't need you to be like me, Legolas," he'd said more than once. "I need you to survive until you can figure out how to be yourself in my place..."_

He was such a formidable figure in my eye, forever strong, forever the King, that when I was younger I imagined he must have found it easy, taking the burden of ruling our people after grandfather fell in battle. Thranduil must have been hurting of course, but he must have taken to the crown so easily too. He must have stood angry and determined. He must have been so sure and powerful and strong...

But over the years, by the dizzying extent of how prepared he wanted me to be in the event of his own death, I realized how scared and uncertain he must have been when his father died and he had to take the burdens of a kingship. This, in my heart, counterintuitively made him even better and stronger of a person; that he was able to survive and thrive despite having limited means and limited knowledge, despite having to tread water and make things up as he went along.

His competence and dogged determination shamed me, as I gathered my breath and my courage while standing outside the doors of the room that held his failing body.

I nodded to the guards there, and they opened the doors for me. The healing hall was wide and long, lined by beds on both sides of the walls and doorways that branched out and burrowed deeper into our mountain cave, holding supply rooms, isolation and operation halls, healers' quarters and offices, and a hallowed room that held the recently deceased. The end of the hall was a large, curtained alcove that was saved for my and father's use whenever we were doing poorly enough to end up here. Father and I both had the misfortune to know it intimately.

The occupied cots were few today, and all of them were clustered near the entrance, away from where the King was kept. This was for the King's privacy and dignity, yes, but also I realized, for the ease of his subjects too. For as I stepped closer and closer toward the curtained room that housed him, I could hear him in his grunting, moaning agonies.

Guards stood before this entrance too, giving me one more chance to pause and gather my courage. I set my jaws and steeled my expression. Barely sparing the guards a glance, I waved away at the curtains and the guards did as I wordlessly commanded – they pulled it open to let me inside. The heavy cloths brushed against each other when they swished closed immediately behind me.

Thranduil was the least himself that I had ever seen him.

There was that scar on the side of his face that was on full display – he had neither strength, enchantment nor inclination to conceal it now. Where his face was not marred it was mottled with pinks, reds and a deathly gray, like all the rest of his exposed skin. Those who looked after him had pulled his long, golden hair back by a string and swathed it gracelessly over the pillows on his head, to keep it away from his face and chest. Still, stray, stubborn strands clung to his sweat-slick neck and forehead. His thin shirt also similarly stuck to his body, which was almost rippling with fine tremors from the top of his head to his legs, all tangled up in blankets. His eyes were closed tightly and he thrashed his head from side to side, as if caught in a nightmare. His breaths came hard and fast. He looked deeply ill, and at the site of the injury where the poison had been administered by a blade, he bled continuously, even through the healers' stitches and bandages. Violent bruises and angry streaks of red spread out from this hand.

It took me a long moment to realize that the head healer, Maenor – who was Minister of Health whenever he felt like leaving his precious halls, was sitting with _ada_. His eyes were closed and he glowed dully as he held my father's unharmed hand. I dared not disturb him, and waited for him to notice me. I stepped forward quietly until I was on my father's other side.

"He waits for you," the healer murmured quietly. He reached for my hand, and placed it over my father's. _Ada_ 's was icy cold, but his tremors lost their edge at my touch.

"I am here, _ada_ ," I said, and looked down on my father's face. "I am safe, and everything is taken care of. You've prepared me well, just as you always meant to. All you need do is rest and recover, do you understand?"

Thranduil's eyes opened to slits and settled in... my general direction. They wouldn't quite focus. For a moment I wondered if I had made a mistake, and if I should instead tell him that everything was going wrong. That I was in danger and that I needed him. That our Kingdom needed him. Would he find strength to rally better that way? But if I let him think he had failed and these were indeed his last moments, I would never forgive myself. I would never let him become like that regretful, restless ghost of lore, the kind whose jobs were incomplete. If he found rest and peace with my assurances, then assurances he would have, and he would simply have to fight this ailment without my lies.

"Is he in pain?" I asked quietly. Father looked... beyond pain. He looked absent this failing body. I wasn't sure what the shaking meant, or the grunting and moaning, but he was all reflexes it seemed, as if he was... no longer at home.

By the chief healer's wince I deduced he felt the same. "It is good that you are here, Legolas. I do not know how much longer he can last. Sit with your father, _hir-nin_ , and lend him comfort where you can, while you can. It is all we can do."

It was my turn to wince for I had to leave, and quickly if I wanted some hope of being able to save father. I look down on him again, and made sure his eyes were as set on me as they could possibly be.

"Listen close, _ada_ ," I told him fervently, "You have given me much to do, and so I must make my leave and do them. But this is not over, do you understand? This cannot be our goodbye, that all I have to say is that I cannot be with you because I am busy. I know you are fighting and trying your best, but so am I. You've waited for me this long, you can stand to wait a little longer. Let me try this one more thing, and in the meantime I need you to live - for my soul, for my sanity, I need you to live even if just for a little while longer. Because there is something I must do and it must be worth the price. I don't know if it will work or not, but what I do know, is that if it works you live and if it doesn't, at least give me time to say goodbye properly. Do you understand?"

I didn't think he did, but that was not due to his illness for the healer looked similarly confused by my words. The confusion was all on me, but that was all right. Maybe it was better this way. The less who knew of what I was about to do, perhaps the better.

I shook my head in dismay at myself. "Never mind, _ada_. All I am trying to say is this – there is something I desperately need to do, and I will be back shortly. I expect you to be alive when I return, even if only long enough for a proper goodbye. Please. I cannot ask you to live for me; that would be unfair to you, upon whose hands that choice may not lie. But give me a chance to say goodbye. That is all."

I leaned forward and pulled the stray, wet strands of hair away from his forehead. I kissed him there, right in the middle where the center of his jeweled circlet usually sat. When I backed away, his eyes had closed, but his trembling had petered off to the occasional jerk and spasm, and he looked like he was resting.

"What are you up to, Legolas?" the healer asked, worriedly. He'd known me a long time...

I ignored the question in favor of my own. "I require the assistance of your chief herbalist and chemist. Who should I commandeer?"

"The elf you seek is in the offices," the healer said warily. "She is one and the same. Bad nerves for a healer – too cautious, not instinctive, doesn't like cutting into flesh. But she has a soul that grows and nurtures things, and she has an eye for measurement and accuracy."

I nodded at him and stepped away from _adar_ , but I couldn't resist a lingering touch at Thranduil's hand. I turned away and wondered for an aching moment if that was the last time I would ever hold him alive...I killed the thought quickly. There were things, so many things that needed doing.

I suddenly had a better understanding of what it cost my father to walk away from me whenever I was the one lying there, hurt and sometimes on the edges of dying, but he had to turn away and do his work. The world didn't stop for us, it never did.

I didn't even have time to sit with him and beg him to live.

I walked away. I didn't look back, else I might have lost my nerve. Father had prepared me for everything that had anything to do with running this kingdom in his absence, but what he couldn't prepare me for was his absence _itself_. The sheer _gone-ness_ of him. The possibility that I might never again see or hear or feel him. The possibility that the last time I looked at him was _the last time I looked at him_.

I collected the herbalist, Rossenith, from the healers' offices where she was half-buried in tomes about the plants and poisons of Middle-Earth. On a table sitting in a bed of cotton was the knife that had harmed _aran-nin_ , still stained by his blood and coated with poison. I knew she was trying to find relief for my father, but I think I had a better one. I ordered her to bring the weapon and come with me. She followed immediately, but had to jog just to keep pace. Outside the healing halls, Brenion and Lastor were waiting for me, just as I instructed them.

* * *

They were such pitiful creatures.

I watched my prey closely, from the spaces between the bars that separated us. Behind me were the Intelligence and War Ministers, the herbalist I accosted from the healing halls, and a small company of royal guards I was no longer permitted to shed in my capacity as Elvenking-designate, especially in our time of crisis.

The old Woodman, that surprisingly successful assassin, was near-emaciated and his dry, leathery skin - upon whom nature and a rough life had been unkind - clung to too-prominent bones. His face was scraggly, world-weary. His drooping eyes were pools of fiery indignation but also, a kind of inextricable sadness. He had a story to tell, and I was almost tempted to ask it except those same sad eyes raked over my mourning attire and flickered with victory and light, and his seeming delight in what symbolized my father's death made me angry.

Men were lesser beings, I let myself think, weak and ephemeral. They were so fragile and fleeting in this world, that what I was about to do was a barely a pinprick in the larger scheme of things.

"The Elvenking is dead?" he asked. His voice was raspy from lack of use. Solitary imprisonment tended to do that, even though he hadn't been here for very long. He rose from his miserable corner to shaking feet and stepped toward where I stood at the barred door to his cell.

"I am the Elvenking," I told him evenly and let him think what he needed to think. From my end, it was not entirely untrue. I had the guards at my bidding, the ministers on my tail, my father's crown on my head, and an heir's mourning clothes on my back. What else was he supposed to think, other than that I had taken my father's place?

The implications of what I said dawned on him in the exact same way that I hoped. "Is it well-known in the land?"

"I imagine the news should be making its way around as we speak."

"Thank the gods!"

The bars that separated us was as good at keeping him inside as it was for keeping me outside and away from him. Otherwise I would have that neck in my hands and it would be so easy to break it, and then I would never get the answers I came here to seek.

"Now that you have accomplished your mission," I said, "perhaps you can be more forthcoming with information. Think of the fate of the child you brought here and used for your schemes. It languishes in a cell like this one, same as you. It will live a longer life within it, you know. Or perhaps... shorter. I do not know which is worse."

"The child is innocent!" he protested. "Your only quarrel is with me. Do with me as you will, I have a profound understanding of my crime, I cannot seek mercy for myself. But my lord, your father had been kind to our kin, and us specifically. You cannot be so cruel. I would never have wished him ill, nor ever dreamt of harming him. I was compelled to do so. The child was here only by necessity. She has no one else, I had to bring her. But she knew nothing of my plans!"

"Compelled by whom?" I asked.

He swallowed, and appeared to come to a decision. "Perhaps it does not matter now," he murmured. "As long as the Elvenking is dead."

"Compelled by whom?" I asked again, needing him to talk faster.

"We are a small people," the old man rattled on, "We do not have much land, much means. We have few needs, and most of the time we have enough to survive. As of late we have been suffering from raids – dark forces from Goblin Town perhaps, or elsewhere in the Misty Mountains. There was little we could do to defend ourselves. We are not the Elvenking, nor do we have the strength of your kin in Rivendell or Lorien. In this region, we are the only easy-pickings.

"A party of them had taken many of our women and children," he continued, his voice now trembling. "We had nothing to give them for the safe return of our loved ones. Nothing but the barest promise that we would turn on our Mirkwood neighbors when the time came. They needed proof of our word. They needed us to do something irrevocable to end what accords our people may one day in the future have. There was no other proof as good as the shedding of the Elvenking's blood. They still have our families – my wife, my daughters – one of them the mother of the little one. Word of the Elvenking's death will buy their freedom."

He stood by the bars of his cell, and looked at me imploringly. His fingers curled at the bars that bound him, and he came so close that the guards behind me stiffened, but I was not going to back away. They knew to respect that will.

"Your father was a kind and noble King," the prisoner went on. "He saw an old man saddled with a child and gave us his time and his ear. He is greatly feared but his gentleness did not surprise me, for we have long lived peacefully beneath the eaves of your trees. He welcomed us to his halls, and held out his hand. I can say no greater praise of any being, than that he saw our poverty, had no good reason to come in aid of it, but he had opened his heart. Surely, his son would have been raised with such care and loving. Surely he is fruit that does not fall far from the tree..."

His generous words of my father's virtues, meant to appease me, only angered me more. That he would dare take such a presence from the world, from my life... that he would use our blood for his small, silly, inconsequential bargains in his short, little life...

It blackened my mood and hardened my heart, which I welcomed greedily, for I very much did not want to concern myself with his miseries, or that of his family's. I was barely able to concern myself with mine. I also did not want to contemplate what would become of my soul or sanity if I did decide to end his life, or that of the raggedy child he had used to gain my father's (secretly) ready sympathy. I wished only to know what he knew. I wished only to save my father. The rest I could resolve and/or live with, later.

I motioned for one of my guards, who brought forth the child who had accompanied the old man. It was small, all skin and bones. It was bald now after we had shaved its head to assure they kept nothing else in there. But there had been anger in the spiteful gesture too, inextricably. Mercy was suddenly the luxury of a different time ( _as recently as yesterday..._ ). Only people as powerful as my father could wield it, and sometimes as now – to disastrous results.

I placed the child between us, and rested my hands over its frail, quaking shoulders. The top of its shaved head barely reached my hip.

"She has your eyes," I said to the old man. "You had mentioned your kidnapped daughter was the mother. A beloved granddaughter, isn't she?"

The old man reached from across the bars suddenly, but I was faster. I pulled the child away from his reach, but kept them painfully close. He strained, and the tips of his fingers were a hair away from that whom he loved.

"The child is innocent!" he protested.

"They always are," I said evenly. I motioned for the herbalist to bring forward the knife that had hurt father. Rossenith blinked and hesitated. The head of the healing wards did say she had little nerve.

None of the elves with me knew of my plans, not that they would have been foolish enough to stop me except I could see that the anxious herbalist was wondering if she had the courage to. Even the War Minister, Brenion, who was a friend of long-standing to _adar_ and had watched and helped me grow, could only stiffen and wait. I was Elvenking-designate now, and free to bloody my own hands and tarnish my own soul. They would have stopped their Prince Legolas, of this I had no doubt. But they were not going to stop _me_.

I grabbed the sword from the tray the herbalist carried. In some ways her fear proved useful – the old man knew now that I was blindly angry and deathly serious because even those around me dreaded what I would do.

"No!" the old man yelled, but he hadn't even finished the word and I was already done with my deed.

I cut at the child's arm. It was an inconsequential little nick, barely should have even drawn any blood except the poison in it seemed to spur bleeding. I released the child then and it shot to its grandfather. They embraced through the gaps between the bars.

"You are a heartless animal!" he yelled at me, but I let his anger bounce off. I wasn't done yet, not by far.

"My father was an elf and his body larger," I told him coldly, "She is human and small. It will take her quickly."

"No, no," the old man sobbed into the child's bare head. It was already beginning to weaken, and its legs folded. The old man braced the child, and they kept their pitiful hold on each other as they slid to the floor.

" _Hir-nin_..." Rossenith said breathlessly, and made a tentative step towards the ailing child. The old man saw in her sympathy a potential ally.

"Please," he begged up at her. "Please, you must help."

"She is beyond our care," she replied to him quietly, "what ails her is unknown to us."

"No," said the old man determinedly. "No. This is a rich forest, it will have, it should have everything you will need. But you have to act quickly."

This was what I wanted. My father's ministers gasped behind me, but steeled their expressions and said nothing as the old man spoke rapidly about the composition of an antidote. When he was finished, the herbalist stepped away and looked flushed and surprised, but determined.

"Go with Rossenith," I told two of the guards. "Make sure she has everything she demands – supplies, personnel, anything and everything. What she requisitions comes above all." To the herbalist herself, I said, "Ensure this fiend is not lying and test the antidote on the child first before giving it to father. I suspect she will need it sooner, at any rate."

The old man's head shot up at that, and his grief slowly turned to anguished realization. "But I thought... I thought... oh good gods. Oh, good gods. The Elvenking is alive. I am sorry, child. I am sorry. I have doomed your mother and those we love. I've doomed them. Now we may not ever get them back. Oh, good gods..."

The old man's sobs were grating in my ear, or maybe it was clawing at my heart. I did not know how to feel about him, about his miseries, or about myself.

"The child is to be moved to the healing wards," I told him, and the elves around me naturally treated it as a command. The old man stopped crying and looked at me with confusion – anger, disbelief, distrust, impossible hope all warred on his weathered face. "Everything that can be done for her will be done."

To the ministers I said – "Assemble a committee, my lords, with whom we can discuss the phenomenon this Woodman is using as an excuse to attack us. I want intelligence information, and I want the extent of this betrayal investigated and answered for, and I want to know if our kin should expect a similar attack from other quarters. This cannot be allowed to stand. I wish to convene in an hour. As for the hostages being held..." I chose my words carefully. "Explore options for a rescue mission."

"My lord!" the old man exclaimed in surprised delight.

"I make no promises to you," I seethed at him. "And you, to whom we owe nothing, will suffer gladly whatever is in store. We will not risk ourselves needlessly for your kin, remember that."

I turned away from him. I never want to see his face again, even in his rapturous gratitude if we should succeed in retrieving his kidnapped family.

"As for this prisoner," I said. ' _Execute him_ ' danced on the tip of my tongue but instead I settled on, "If father lives, so will he. For now, keep him alive. He stays imprisoned. Keep him here until I decide to remember him."

* * *

The world refused to stop for us.

My days were consumed by the running of a kingdom in crisis, though fears of a secondary attack thankfully proved fruitless. In the night, I sat with my father and eased him through his agonies. It was the only time I could find to beg him to stay alive, and stay alive he did.

The old Woodman's antidote proved true for both Thranduil and the granddaughter, whom I could never find the inclination or nerve to look upon whenever I passed her bed in the healing wards on the way to the King's. She'd lost a hand from poor circulation and rotted flesh though, on the side where I cut her. Of all that had happened to us over the course of these hard days, this is what gnawed at me the most.

I never expected to escape my sins unscathed, but I did not think I would be punished through the pain of another. Because I received it through the child's suffering, it was a finer punishment, as if distilled, more concentrated, as if through a sieve. It tasted stronger and purer and more potent. But I thought also that her pain was efficient, because certainly it was meant to punish me and her grandfather too.

The old man would never go free, but the child he had come with would be released back to their lands and the parent whom our hardy elven soldiers had successfully rescued. Neither the old Woodman nor his people contested his punishment, though they certainly mourned it. I let some of them visit him to say goodbye. Such a crime as he had committed never would have gone unpunished, and his imprisonment was a just one.

His crime, ultimately, was not the attempt at murder. He had claimed he knew my father to be merciful, and he should have spoken plainly of his need, rather than resort to duplicity. It was an egregious mistake, and the misjudgment was his undoing.

The days melded together as we returned to some semblance of normalcy, and I had acquired new habits of my own. I sat for morning briefings with father's ministers, and _ada_ 's attendant Galion had learned to force a piece of bread in my hands for breakfast otherwise I would go almost entirely without meals until I or someone else remembered it at some point before bed. During the course of the day one or a few smaller groups of ministers would accost me for a variety of issues that demanded a King's decision but not the wise counsel of the others.

To ease our people's minds about their safety and my competence, I agreed to hold court for a very short few hours every day too, so that they could see the succession was secure and their kingdom well-handled. It did not take long for various interests to hand me petitions and lobbies during these hours, which I would then pore over at night alongside an intimidating collection of papers that included intelligence reports, military movements, missives from other territories, personal correspondence, farming yields and everything else under the sun.

The better father got, the less and less time people gave me to sit with him (and the more papers they gave). Sometimes, the only moments we had together was when I fell to an exhausted sleep on a small divan by his bed in the healing wing.

When he first woke, I was not there.

When he next woke, I was not there.

The same went for other times. I would arrive late at night and he would already be deeply asleep and resting. My first hint of just how well he was recovering, was when I entered one evening to find the divan I'd been sleeping for weeks in, outfitted with the comfortable bedclothes of my own suites, rather than the frugal pillows and flimsy blankets of the healing halls. It could only have been by order of my father.

When Thranduil had had enough of our missing each other back and forth, he took matters into his own hands. I was drifting off to sleep, and I felt an insistent palm softly patting at my cheek.

" _Ada,_ " I greeted him with a smile. It felt strange on my mouth, as if it could have split my face in two. It was like an unused muscle, stinging after injury and immobility. My joy had atrophied until now. I don't believe I've smiled since before I was pulled from the eastern outpost with news that my father was grievously hurt.

"Legolas," he said. His voice was hoarse and broken, and he was clearly far from well but he was recovering. It warmed my heart as few things could, now that my mind was weighed by something I was dying to tell him. I was dying to confess to him.

"Have they told you?" I asked quietly, "Have you been informed of the things I've done?"

He pretended to be obtuse. "What you have done... saved the King's life. Outsmarted an assassin. Organized the rescue of abducted women and children. Ran a kingdom in crisis and restored it to proper order. Of what do you speak?"

I was in no mood to be coddled. "I hurt a child. I cut and poisoned her and she lost her hand."

Father's eyes softened at my determination to discuss this. "Ah," he said gently, "There is that."

"I wish to apologize but I find I cannot feel sorry," I told him. "How can I be both contrite and yet so sure that I was right? I cannot regret the outcome of her suffering at my hands. I can only regret my hand in it. How is one to reconcile..."

I looked away from him and down at, yes, the very hands in question. They were shaking, and I clasped them together to try and keep them still.

"I always," I struggled to find my words. "I always knew I was willing to die for you, for our people. I was also certainly willing to kill, though I did not understand to what extent. I did not expect how easy it was to decide to cut and bleed her. It was so easy to risk her life to get to what I want."

"You trusted in her grandfather's love," the King pointed out. "You had reasonable belief that she would survive."

"Yes but I didn't know if he even knew of the antidote," I answered. "I did not know for sure and I gambled with her life, _ada_ , make no mistake. I had to risk it, I had to look resolute. She really could have died. I could have murdered an innocent."

"But you didn't," father said. "You didn't. Sometimes you take your victories as they come. Can you imagine the barest triumph of it, just the smallest most vital win of it, that we are all somehow alive?"

"Except I cannot look at her," I said. "I can barely look at myself. Does it get easier, _aran-nin_? Does it ever get easier to live with decisions like these?"

"Do you want it to?"

"Yes," was the easy answer and I let myself say it before I think it through. Who wouldn't want pain to cease?

"I do not want that for you," he said softly. "It's not you, to not feel things. To cease from caring. I would take this pain from you if I could, _ion-nin_ , but in this capacity, we will carry many burdens. Guilt amongst them."

"Is that all she is, in the end?" I asked. "One of many sins? An episode, a casualty, a little bite that itches and swells for a little while?"

"Yes," he answered plainly.

"Maybe the old man was right to call me an animal."

"This is the world we live in, Legolas," the King told me. "We all learn to go on the only way that we know how. The child, for example, will know not to expect an apology from you, the same way you should not expect the gratitude of her people for the rescue of her family. Everyone pays a price, and we all just... go on."

I bite my lip and nod. It was all just... philosophy. I would change nothing of what I'd done in the past, and pondering this would change nothing of how I would conduct myself in the future. Maybe I was just tired, and needed proper rest. Thranduil reached for my trembling hands with his uninjured one.

 _Hands, hands, hands..._

I lowered my head to our hands and wept over them, bitterly.

"We just go on, Legolas," he said, "We just go on."

I wept at my father's bedside until I fell asleep.

 **THE END**

May 5, 2018

* * *

 **AFTERWORD**

 **I. The Inspiration**

 _When It Comes_ is my sophomore effort at the Teitho contest, for the theme "Expectation." I was playing with a bunch of plots, but I was tickled by the idea that Legolas was always willing to die for his people, but he didn't expect the extent he was willing to kill for them.

 _When It Comes_ as it appears here on fanfiction . net is essentially the same fic that had been submitted to the contest, with a few edits. One of the landmark features of Teitho is the anonymity of the author, and I reused some original characters in it, so I felt compelled to strip them of their names to preserve the un-recognizability of the author in the submission, and then just restored them once posted here.

Just as in my maiden entry _A Father Dreams_ , I started writing a different fic following the prompt, but sometimes something else just takes over and flows out relentlessly, which is what happened here. I wrote it in less than a week. The story placed third, following some really gifted writing that everyone should legit check out. Teitho has been running for a long, long time, and I only just discovered it. But joining the contest, reading all the other people's work and voting is really fun, and a great way to keep the community engaged. I admire the organizers' discipline and commitment for all these years, and joining in or even just reading and voting is something I would recommend to anyone :)

I'm actually not sure if I should have entered this story in the contest, or if I should be posting it in this series of one-shots or on it's own; in afterthought it's too long, haha. When I started reading the other Teitho entries I just wanted to kick myself for going on the long-side, so I'm just relieved it placed at all. I was mulling over what to do with this piece here on fanfiction . net for its second life (like post it in two or three parts as a separate story for example), but I was excited to post and in the absence of a decision on this, I just went with the original plan (being a part of _The Halls of My Home_ ). I hope it worked out and the length is not too intimidating for a one-shot.

 **II. The World of _The Halls of My Home_**

As I had stated earlier, fics that are part of _The Halls of My Home_ series (as well as my other Mirkwood-set fics), operate in the same universe because of the repeated use of settings, practices and original characters. Mostly this is for convenience, and I have no larger plans of creating or following a timeline other than that these fics all happen before _The Hobbit_ films simply because Legolas is still in his father's kingdom.

Of all the fics I've posted thus far on this series, _When It Comes_ is the one where I expounded most on a system of governance from my imagined Mirkwood. Here, I brought in Thranduil's ministers, which what I constructed as being comparable to our own members of cabinet.

There are a few familiar OCs to those who follow my works – Brenion the War Minister, Lastor the Intelligence Minister and the head of the healing wards and Health Minister, Maenor. This fic introduces a couple of others. Excepting the Interior Minister Galliel (who handles supplies, housing, education and general services), _When It Comes_ does not name them so that the reader (and the writer lol) is not overwhelmed.

In a nutshell though, the rest of the cabinet and what they manage would be External Affairs (akin to the State Department); Treasury; and Commerce (for agriculture, employment and trade). The War Minister Brenion's office handles what would be homeland security, military and police for us – they are a militaristic society, so I bulked together the functions of a civilian police force with military presence. Lastor's Intelligence Minister I made out to handle intelligence gathering, spying, communications (messengers and the like), archiving and records maintenance. This world's "Justice Department" of course, is under judgment of the King. I hope this all makes sense and is fitting to the universe; I wanted it to feel like a place that well, worked! Plus it was fun writing Legolas and in a way, Thranduil in their more administrative capacities :)

 **III. The Characterizations**

 **On Legolas**. This was a very dark Legolas for me, which I've always found trouble with excepting a few, sudden and irresistible occasions where the prospect turns tantalizing (I think my last one had been the A/L Love, War, which is I think my dark horse favorite of all my works). His characterization in _When It Comes_ is best summed up in the line " _I always knew I was willing to die for you, for our people. I was also certainly willing to kill, though I did not understand to what extent_." This to me was the price he had to pay when his father fell – his innocence, and his expectations of himself. Another point of characterization is when he dehumanizes the people who hurt his father, so that he could feel better about hurting them in return. The constant internal references to the child as an "It" was something I felt conveyed that darkness.

 **On Thranduil**. The main thing about Thranduil here is his " _(secretly) ready sympathy_ ," his surprising kindness. He'd been hardened by a life of War and he has had to conceal it, but I felt it popped out in his characterization in the movies, especially as it pertains to taking in Tauriel and to an extent, the aid he offered the folks at Laketown (even if he claimed its mercenary nature). I felt he had an unexpected kindness, even if he denies it.

I think what I also enjoyed about characterizations in this piece was how readers may expect Legolas to be kinder and Thranduil to be tougher, when what happens is the reverse. So in terms of keeping up with the Teitho theme, I go with the medium being the message again, and hopefully play into how reader expectations can also be somewhat flipped. I hope it's not too much of a stretch :)

 **IV. A Sobering Real Life Note**

So I can believe that most people consider a fanfiction site to be a safe space and so, a generally apolitical one. But as artists – and yes, writing here constitutes artistic expression – we are a product of our time, and we cannot, even in the most distant of fantasies, be completely divorced from the realities around us.

When I wrote and sent in _When It Comes_ to the Teitho contest, news about children being separated from their parents at the US border hasn't blown up yet. This to me is plainly cruel, a disproportionate response to a problem and inhumane, no matter which side of the aisle you stand. I understand that borders have to be protected, laws have to be followed, and that nations have a right to protect the interests of their own people first (never mind if this is the most appropriate and effective way to do it, which is debatable in itself). But surely, surely a government is also entrusted with the preservation of the soul of its people too, right? Surely, surely there are lines that shouldn't be crossed, right?

I ponder on this, especially as the news of children wrenched from their parents is so prevalent while I post this story, which does feature a child being harmed for what's perceived as a greater good. What's happening in the United States now is devastating to me as a mother and as a person. But then, I reviewed what I wrote here and suddenly became hesitant over its contents. Do ends justify the means? Can anything ever justify the harming of a child? It's one of my hesitations on posting this story at this time, especially when it can be construed as advocating the idea of just going on and doing what you have to to survive. But I think Legolas' devastation at the end is still an important message. There will always be a cost to the soul in doing something reprehensible, no matter the justifiable reason.

And on that note – let's all just be kind to each other. It is both a simple thought and surprisingly hard to do sometimes, but there it is. I hope this note does not sour your experience of the story, and just adds things to ponder.

As always, C&C's are welcome and hope to see you on the next fic!


	5. 5: Maps and Compasses

**hey guys!**

First off, thanks to all who read, followed, favorited and especially all who reviewed my most recent concluded fic, _These Visions of You_. Personalized responses to reviewers will be sent shortly, but in the meantime - since the weekend's coming up - I thought it might be fun to post a random one-shot and slip it in here :) I am not super sure why, but this is one of my favorites lately, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please feed the writer with comments and constructive criticism if you are able ;) Mostly though, I hope you like it and I wish all a happy weekend ahead!

 **# # #**

 **"Maps and Compasses"**

 _Thranduil's POV: Legolas is trying to corner his father into a conversation the Elvenking absolutely refuses to have – succession plans in case the Prince is killed in action_

 **# # #**

My son said something the other day, and it has been bothering me since. I think upon it now, as I wait to enter the room in the healing halls where he is currently being treated.

 _I was on my way back to my personal offices from a council meeting, and Legolas had apparently cornered my attendant, Galion, negotiating for a place in my schedule. He was wrangling for an hour with me, in exactly seven days. I could hear his armor and knew he was on his way out for duty. He was expected to return in a week and wanted a place in my well-filled calendar, which Galion tended to guard zealously._

 _"I do not understand, my lord," Galion said nervously, "you wish to set an appointment with your own father?"_

 _"Yes," Legolas said with some frustration, "that is exactly what I have been trying to tell you."_

 _"But an appointment?"_

 _"Yes!"_

 _"You have command of his attention at any time you wish," Galion pointed out, not unjustly. "I do not mean any disrespect,_ hir-nin _, but part of my job is explicitly to limit your father-the-King's business within the hours he had set. His days have been filled for weeks now, and I am beleaguered day after day by requests for inclusion upon his calendar. Your people beg me for moments of his time. You on the other hand, my lord, can accost him whenever you please. I do not believe he, nor your citizens, will appreciate the commandeering of a coveted slot when you can have him at most any point of your choosing. Over the meals you share, perhaps, or a drink after dinner. I may even suggest before sleep. But an appointment?"_

 _"It is official business," Legolas said tightly._

 _"Well if that is the case, I must know what it is so that I may justify it before our_ aran _when he inquires it of me."_

 _Legolas sighed. "I wish to discuss my succession plans."_

 _I held my breath, and so did Galion. I dared not breathe, for the silence between them was so potent, they would have heard the barest sound that I made. I did not want them to know I was there. I wanted to stay in the shadows and discover what new madness had taken hold of my son's head._

 _"I've been venturing out frequently," Legolas said, earnestly the way he gets when he is trying to get his way, "Things are afoot, it is becoming more and more dangerous out there. I've been trying to discuss the succession matter with_ adar _but he refuses to hear of it. But just because he does not like the issue does not mean it is unworthy or undeserving of his time. We simply need to discuss this. Clinically, professionally, as brothers-in-arms. I wish to speak of who will succeed me, of arrangements for my funeral, of the chain of command should I fall, of whom we can train and what education we are expected to impart to this heir as early as now, if the worse should happen and I am lost in the fighting. Adar has no brothers, neither do I. I have sired no children. If we do not plan this now, our people will be crippled later._

 _"So, please, dear Galion," he implored, "I need his time and his full attention. He is my king and can force me to sit for his succession plans but he dismisses me outright when I attempt to discuss my own. I cannot force him in any other way. Please."_

 _Galion exhaled slowly and dispensed with formality for the serious topic. "Oh, Legolas. I will tell you one thing – if I reserve his time in indulgence of this matter, I might as well make my own plans of succession for he will strangle me on the spot. Are you certain you have no clever bastards running around somewhere we can just slap a crown upon later?"_

 _"None that I know of," came the wry reply._

 _"I am almost disappointed," said the other. After a moment, Galion sighed. "I humbly request that the prince try one more time. For my sake, my lord. I understand your apprehensions but I am not quite ready to part with my head just yet. If you are still unable to secure our King's attentions, I will set for you any time that you-"_

 _I pounded my staff against the wall, to announce my nearing presence and cease the rest of their unwelcome conversation. When I turned the corner, Legolas was waving his hands at Galion as if to say, This conversation never happened._

 _"_ Adar _!" he greeted me, with that blinding smile of his that he liked using for all manner of evil purposes, including the misdirection of his own father. "I am about to leave and was just looking to say goodbye to you."_

 _I winced, for the phrasing was unfortunate given the topic he'd just been trying to breach with Galion, whose face had gone in that studied impassivity of his. He tended to take on the expression of a bland slice of lembas whenever he was about to be caught between his Prince and King, as if he wished it to be forgotten that he was there..._

I sigh at the memory. If Galion had given in to my son's wish for an appointment with me, Legolas would have missed it. He was a harrowing ten days late from his expected return, having encountered a litany of distractions along the road home to me. He wrote at least, with messengers bearing letters explaining he'd been waylaid by a patrol here or another there. Everywhere he passed on his way back to Our halls seemed beset by one problem or another that he had to personally attend to, frequently in the capacity of relief for squads undermanned by exhaustion or injury.

His current is actually a surprise to me. His last letter did not discuss it and if anything, sounded as if he intended to be away for longer. But then Galion fetched me from the final business of my day, informing me of my son's unexpected return.

 _"He'd been back the last hour or so,_ aran-nin _," Galion had said. "He did not wish to disturb you."_

 _I felt my lips curl into a helpless smile. "Then he returns in time to join me for the evening meal."_

 _Galion winced. "He is otherwise occupied, at the moment."_

 _I sigh impatiently. "Healing halls? You should have fetched me sooner, Galion."_

 _"Lord Maenor guaranteed the Prince's condition was far from serious, and my lord Legolas explicitly bid me not to disrupt your schedule on his behalf for 'so trifling a thing.'"_

 _"And of us three it is the King's desire that was for some reason not heeded," I pointed out. Galion cringed, but did not apologize as he led me to where my son was..._

Galion left me where I now stand.

The healing hall is long and sparsely populated this night, but a private alcove at the end, covered by a thick curtain and under guard, is where my son is usually treated. It gives him the privacy and comfort appropriate to his rank, while keeping him in close proximity to the healers and their wares. I had dismissed Galion for the day and the guards temporarily when I arrived and for a long moment, I keep my place beyond the curtains and steel myself for what I may find inside.

I hear Legolas and the head of the healing wards himself, Maenor. They are talking quietly and good-naturedly, and I let myself feel comforted by it, even marginally. I close my eyes and breathe out slowly in relief.

My son is returned to me alive and more or less well.

"You know how this goes, _hir-nin_."

"Oh do I ever," comes the muffled reply.

I hear a sickening pop! and Legolas utters a broken cry, bitten short. He growls, and I hear his fist pounding on wood as an outlet of his anguish. His breathing is loud and harsh. My heart drops to my stomach and I feel sick for him, but he retches for both of us.

"All right now," the healer soothes.

"You would think," Legolas says huskily, with a macabre, low laugh, "it's happened so much it would hurt less, wouldn't you?"

"Only you would think that," Maenor says dryly. "Optimist."

Legolas snickers.

"Hold this steady on your shoulder now," instructs the healer, and I hear the grounding sounds of small, flat, river rocks in a sack. These are sensitive and retentive to temperature; sometimes kept in the cold stores or the river bed for cooling, other times over fire for heat.

Legolas hisses. "Hot today. I never know with you healers. Sometimes once ices and injury and other times it's like this."

"You're a hair away from shock for the pain and blood loss, my lord," Maenor explains. "I think we can worry about swelling later. I will see you warmed and painless first."

"I would take the cold now if you have it then," Legolas protests. I roll my eyes. "Swelling will keep me from work, and I do not feel near shock at all."

"I will be the judge of that," Maenor responds mildly, "You do your good works, princeling, and I will expect you to let me do mine."

A heavy but resigned sigh.

"Now let us see to the rest of you."

Elbereth he's been in here for over an hour. What more is there?

They are quiet for a long moment and I, Elvenking, debase myself and stay beyond the doors, trying to eavesdrop for reasons I cannot understand.

An apprentice healer exits the room bearing trays of discarded, grimed and bloodied cloths and the bowl my son had been sick in. She bows at me and opens her mouth to announce my presence but I place a finger to my lips and wordlessly command her into silence. I think I would rather see (or more precisely, hear) for myself how my son truly fares, and not be subject to the show of strength he usually thinks he can – and needs to – put on for me. She nods in understanding of my orders (if not perhaps, my motivations) and bows as she walks away.

"Ah, Legolas, how do you do it, eh?" Maenor marvels. I think they've move on to stitches now, for I can hear my son's hitching breath and it draws a picture in my mind of the rhythmic pulls of thread and plunging of a needle.

"I think your blood has watered half the forest by now, you reckless wood-elf."

The healer had said it dispassionately, but with some inextricable pride too. I know that same dissonance intimately. It warms my spirit that my child shares in my devotion to the woods and has willingness for work and sacrifice. But as King and citizen of our Realm, my heart soars at our Prince's brutal strength and ability to survive almost anything. It gives us confidence and hope, such that anyone is always ready and eager to venture out with him even to the most dangerous of missions and better – they always go out in the belief that they can win.

That is the stuff of Kings and Princes, and these are badges hard-won here in our home, not just given by birthright. They are responsibilities, not privileges. They require maintenance through constant action.

"Surely a healer of your prowess," replies Legolas through grit teeth, "understands the physics of it all by now, my lord. There is a hole and red things come out."

Maenor chuckles quietly, but guffaws freely at the rest of Legolas' irreverent reply.

"But why only... half the forest?" Legolas hisses, "Father would call that underachieving."

I am glad they can find humor for I cannot. My son gives blood, sweat and tears to our home, everything of his body, every day of his life. He is thus a part of the Wood, just as the Wood is a part of him – it nourishes, heals and soothes him in turn. He knows it inside and out. It is his life and his work. Sometimes, he is the forest.

Because to look at his state is to understand the state of Our Woods. His body has become a gage of victory and failure. When he returns hale and whole and happy, we are winning. When he returns battered and senseless – for he does not stop fighting and working until he falls – we are likely losing ground.

Lately he's been coming home in a state somewhere in between, and I know from his conversation with Galion that his own death has been on his mind. His body is breaking down, I think, and Maenor concurs – easier to break and harder to heal. But we could hardly keeping him from leaving. We are all of us, stretched thin here.

Maenor and I suspect, however, that he is wearing worse than most. We think that when he is not the Halls and therefore beyond our supervision while assigned to the outposts, he goes out every day. We just do not know for certain because no would tell on him, not even to my dismayed war minister and the head of our army, Brenion, with whom we shared our suspicions.

Brenion had accosted a number of Legolas' soldiers, who did their usual dance of keeping to the command chain and deigning from going over the Prince's head and telling on him, for it was Legolas who was their direct superior. Brenion, Maenor and I... we were only old elves in robes closeted in splendid rooms while these young fools held themselves to be hardened field soldiers looking after their own. They held their tongues. This line of thinking, on top of the loyalty and high regard they personally harbored for someone who had long fought by their side, was further compounded by the fact that out of practicality, whoever ventured out simply wanted Legolas with them anytime he was able. So there is no confirmation available of how Legolas works himself to the ground, but his body is ultimately its own confessor. The omerta among these young fools can only hide things so much.

By the harried look of him, we know that Legolas never lets himself rest, and when he returns home he is more and more like a wraith and less and less like himself. He is paler, for there is no sun where he goes. He is thinner, with his hard work eating away at any stores found on his bones. He has lately been of a mind harder to pin down – drifting in thought to the next task, the battle away, the battle tomorrow, impatient to leave, intolerant of delay.

Maenor is clever to coax macabre humor out of Legolas at my son's usual first stop, the healing halls. He returns to us quicker this way. But this cannot go on.

I toy with the curtain in front of me, and rustle it a bit to announce my presence.

" _Adar_!" Legolas called out in a cheerful but muffled voice from within, "Come from where you skulk in the shadows!" I roll my eyes from consternation but do as requested. I enter the room.

He is clad only in boots and torn breeches, sitting backwards upon a plain wooden chair. He straddles the seatback, hunching low and resting his forehead over his folded left arm upon it, while his left hand holds a small sack of heated rocks against his bare shoulder. His right arm is stretched along a table, and is in blues and blacks from his elbow to his armpits.

Maenor is crouched by him, stitching a long, grisly gash that goes from his right side to midway along his lower back. The healer makes a motion as if to rise and bow before me, but I wave it away in unspoken order for him to continue with his work. It is a casual atmosphere of just us three, and even Legolas has not addressed me as his King just yet. I think it is because he cannot bow or even rise (his left leg is stretched out too, and braced and immobilized with splints and leathers from mid-calf to mid-thigh, while another pack of heated rocks rest on his bruised left hip), and so he let the situation dictate our relations.

He seems well enough and is alert and good spirits, but I wince at the sight of him. If he thinks swelling is all he has to worry about in this state, he is indeed, as Maenor had earlier pointed out, an optimist. I doubt he would be able to walk properly, much less run, draw an arrow, or fight. I am not even sure how he plans to manage a crutch.

"You knew it was me," I say.

"Your robes on the ground sound like rustling leaves," Legolas explains, "and your hair is delightfully fragrant." With his head lowered, I cannot see his face. But his tone is teasing. "The oils you use are distinct, adar. I heard and smelled you. I almost always hear and smell you when you are nearby."

My brows raise at this, and I wonder if he is being clever and figurative, or if he knew I'd been standing there all this while, which would mean he must also know I had overheard at least some part of his conversation with Galion two weeks ago, too. I do not know. I cannot tell with his face hidden from me.

"I am surprised you are able to sense anything other than yourself," I retort instead. "You stink like an orc."

He laughs. It is untrue and I am lying. He smells in some ways worse. The scent of orc blood and flesh usually meant the enemy had been cut and killed. How Legolas smells now... he's the one hurting.

He smells of sweat, blood, sickness and something else, something somewhat pungent. I see then, his archer's finger tips with the worst blistering I'd ever seen, some red and swollen, others cut and freshly lanced from staving infection. His hands are trembling too, and I am not sure if he is aware of it. He might not be. What I notice are only the most prominent of his ills, for there are more than I could count and probably more than he would let himself feel.

I watch as his broad, lean, powerful back rises and falls in carefully drawn breaths, occasionally stuttering when he loses control and shudders in pain from Maenor's ministrations. There is no sizeable plain, untouched patch of skin on it. There is always either a cut or a bruise, in degrees of freshness, fading or scarring – Maenor's stitches add a new set of neat, broken lines near his waist, but there are plenty of others. Of particular note lies near the back of his neck, aligned to his shoulders. It is a hard lined scar of puckered skin; a field stitching, not as clean as Maenor's work. It could have cut his head off, and if he had gone home for its treatment I would have remembered a wound like this. He did not even come home for something so grave, and the thought of that terrifies me.

I've seen my son in far worse states than this, I've seen him at death's door. But because there is no single, overwhelming injury this time, I have a wider view of how systematically and consistently he is wearing down. He looks like a history of fighting, a catalogue of pain; his body is a map of our struggles. It is survivable, incessant pain. But it is slow, gentle torture just the same.

I've fought in wars and had my share of battles. They were unforgiving and brutal in their own ways, but they at least had endings. My son, on the other hand, is fighting a protracted siege against a constant flush of enemies. We are at "peace" of a sort but are nevertheless, constantly besieged. This is my son's daily life.

Maenor finishes with his stitches, and Legolas lifts his head as the healer wraps his side in clean bandages. His eyes are glassy, but his face is unmarred. He is spared that, at least.

"He runs a fever," I guess, as if the healer needed telling.

"It is not unexpected," Maenor replies. "I will give him something for it and for pain. I will confine you to these wards for the night, Legolas. You may return to rest properly in your own chambers tomorrow as I know you prefer, but only if you are no worse."

"How much time will this cost me?" Legolas asks.

"To your father's halls you must remain for the next three weeks at least," Maenor answers. "Let your bones mend, you are otherwise a liability on the field and if you heal improperly, you may end up losing some of that vaunted accuracy of yours."

Legolas is dismayed by the prognosis, and a protest flickers past his eyes but he grins ferally instead. "Well my lord, we can't have that, now can we?"

It makes me ill and truly sickened of myself and my poison thoughts, but I find I am actually relieved for Legolas' broken bones, this time. It is the kind of injury that does not threaten his life or long-term mobility, but would be enough to keep him home for a little while so that he may have some real time to rest.

I thank the gods for my son's broken bones.

I thank the gods for my son's broken bones?

I never thought I would thank the gods for my son's broken bones.

It is such a sick thought for a father to have, but that is life here, now. My son has his brand of daily burdens, and I have my own.

 **# # #**

 **# # #**

I stop dead in my tracks, and I feel as if my heart has jumped to my throat and lodged there, because for a breathtaking moment after I entered the council hall, I thought it was Oropher himself before me.

It is only Legolas.

My son is appropriately seated on the right hand of the head of the table where I sit. He is chewing thoughtfully on a piece of lembas, and looking over sheaves of paper containing information on the day's agenda. I am surprised he is here, given the state he's been in these last three days since his return.

Legolas spent the first night in the healing halls, but convinced the healers he was well enough for transfer to his own rooms the next day. We waited until nightfall, however, when most activity in the stronghold had wound down for the day and there were fewer of our people about. He did not wish to be seen and gossiped about.

 _I escorted him myself. I walked ahead in accordance with protocol while behind me, Legolas managed to amble along with his left arm slung over the shoulder of one guard, while another hovered uncertainly on his tightly bound right side. Another guard trailed behind them, bearing a plain but elegantly made wooden crutch for Legolas to use for moving around after another night's rest._

 _I would turn to look and check upon their progress once in a while, and whenever he let out a grunt from between his set jaws. He was pale, sweating and shaking; rightfully in a world of pain. But he also looked dreadfully chagrined about needing help. I slowed down my pace, lest he was exerting himself unnecessarily to go faster and not keep his king waiting._

 _Legolas survived his embarrassment with lingering anger, for before we left the healing wards and made the long walk to his chambers, Maenor had all but trussed him up in a large, triangular, bright white cloth sling for his right arm and shoulder, and my son despised it with a passion. He also snarled at the crutch that one of the other healers had brought in. He was irritable from his pain and weariness and whatever else was going on in his mind, and disinclined to be diplomatic._

 _"It makes me look unwell," he protested._

 _"You are unwell!" Maenor pointed out._

 _"We cannot be seen this way, my lord, oh no," Legolas insisted._

 _"You care so much what others think of how you look?" Maenor asked in disbelief._

 _"Our people cannot see so apparently that the orc can hurt us," Legolas said quietly. "Do you have absolutely nothing else that would make me seem more... more... able? Recovered? Anything at all?"_

 _Maenor sighed and softened his stance only because he understood now where Legolas was coming from. He glanced at me to intercede._

 _"Let us put things this way,_ ion-nin _," I said, and even I could hear the edge in my voice, for I too understood. "You can't not use these, can you, not if you wish the leg and arm to continue to be serviceable? As your King and Commander, you will just have to suffer it all..."_

But this morning, I walk into the council hall and find all traces of the sling and the crutch I had ordered used, gone. In place of the white cloth was an improvised, deep brown leather pauldron with the seal of our house resting on his ailing shoulder, held up by supportive matching straps that wound in complex ways around his arm and over his torso. Legolas always had some cachet with the Quartermaster's office (they send sweet cakes to the south when he is there, for the love of the gods, sweet cakes!) and I see it in full-force now, for the superb craftsmanship in so quick a time could only be because they were devoted to their prince's whims.

As for his injured leg, it is hidden in the folds of his resplendent official robes. As a serving Captain, Legolas is allowed to be in his warrior's tunics even when attending court and council, and that is usually what he prefers. But today he is in robes, and it hides his splinted limb. He'd also done away with the crutch and replaced it with something from the royal stores – a slim, strong staff, subtly bejeweled at the head, which rested near his knee.

It belonged to his late grandfather.

Legolas must have seen it when he'd gone to the treasury to retrieve the princely circlet now gracing his head, which he usually brought out only in exercise of his official administrative capacities, as in the council meeting we are about to have. All of these things all together had transformed his injuries such that he actually looks mightier, and suddenly I have a formidable looking golden elf in a council hall who looked both royal and poised for war, invoking no less than the image of Oropher.

 _Adar..._

...who also did not know when to pull back, and who also did not know when he was not enough. Every thought of you, even now, even in your imperfections, makes my heart ache.

"I hope that is not breakfast," I tell Legolas, nodding at his bread. He looks up from the papers that had distracted him and he scrambles to stand. We are alone but in formal settings, and it is both custom and habit for him to do so, injury or no. "Don't be a fool and keep your seat," I snap, and he does as he is told. "Well?"

"Breakfast was some time ago, _aran-nin_ ," he says with a deep bow of his head. "I've been up for hours."

"And you've been busy," I say, nodding at his new accruements.

"They indulge me at the Quartermaster's office too much," he replies with a smile, "and I hope you did not mind, my king, that I had taken liberties with the royal stores."

"You've always had unfettered access to your family's possessions, foolish wood-elf," I tell him. "I am frankly quite relieved you've finally decided to take an interest."

"I will return them as soon as I am able."

"They are yours to take, Legolas"

"Still," he says with a small smile and a shrug. He is oh-so-very Silvan sometimes, my woodland prince with his lack of material vices.

He shifts to less formal language, taking my cue. "If you do not mind me saying, _ada_ , you are quite early yourself here."

"So I am," I admit.

I do it sparingly, so that my councilors do not take notice. Sometimes, I go to the halls intentionally early so that whenever each councilor arrives afterward, they are horrified at the realization they've kept their king waiting. This means they start the session on the back foot, and so I am usually more able to ask anything of them and they would give it without question... and there is something important I need from everyone today.

I will ask of them something that is unwelcome but necessary, and I do not want their questions or opinions. I just want quick compliance. I want it done.

Legolas looks at me inquisitively and expectantly, but I think this is a lesson he can learn another day.

One by one the councilors arrive and react as expected; alarm that I am waiting. Bows and profuse apologies. Relief that others are as tardy or preferably later than they are. And over the course of our gathering, quick acquiescence and promises of compliance with everything I want.

And then at last we come to the final subject of the morning's session - the struggling southern borders. A map is placed before us of the Woodland. It is beautiful country, thick with forests and rich with weaving water sources.

All the Northeast above the Forest River and some miles south of its banks is uncontested territory for us, and on the map this ownership is marked by a bold, thick, line. Everything above the line is safe. Everything above the line is ours. In total this constitutes about a quarter of the entire forest that was once more or less ruled or at least freely roamed in its entirety by Oropher, _adar_. Our people have had to move further and further up north over my lifetime, but then again we are also vastly reduced as a people and have far fewer needs. But our current holdings are no longer negotiable. To move further up north would be to lose the river, which is both a natural geographical barrier for our Realm as well as a strategic resource of freshwater that our survival depended on defending. There will be no more moves north for the wood-elves.

But around two hundred miles south of the hard line that marked the borders of our final indispensable home, is a dotted line we dared not move south of. But everything between the hard line of our north and this dotted line in the south was contested territory; unsafe, un-lived in, but still subject to our defensive patrols. This includes the Mountains of Mirkwood and the Old Forest Road. This region is spider-infested and porous, open to the increasingly frequent yrch incursion.

This is the middle half of the forest most watered by my son's blood, and I realize Maenor's joke had been surprisingly accurate. I realize also that the well-marked, weathered map before me, bears a striking resemblance to my son's bruised and scarred back. It is a jarring thought, but it reminds me of why I must do what I am about to do.

I...

I...

I want to give up most of the contested part of the forest.

Patrols will cease to be made there. We will no longer endeavor to keep the old path passable, and will just forge one of our own further north. There are no formal settlements in this area, but if there are any sparse populations, they will either be aided with resettlement north, or face their own fates. The land will be left to our aggressors, and the gods will do with it and them, whatever they will.

I want to move the dotted line up from far south of the Old Forest Road and only up to the foot of the Mirkwood Mountains. This means surrendering a swathe of the forest over a hundred miles thick.

Some of my councilors will think I am giving up. But I am only giving up land, and that is not the same thing at all.

 **# # #**

 **# # #**

It was not received well...

...I still got my way.

After council, I am usually the first to rise and exit, leaving behind me my trusted elves on their feet and bowing their chief. But today, I eschew the habit in favor of dismissing everyone so that I may be left alone in the hall with my son. Legolas is gray-faced and trembling, and I do not think he would be able to rise at my exit as dictated by custom, nor gracefully bear the scrutiny of the senior members of his apparent ills. But it isn't just in consideration of his injuries and pride that I stay. He has questions in his thoughtful blue eyes.

My oldest friend and trusted war minister, Brenion, lingers too. I usually discuss matters like this with him, but I decided to keep my own counsel this time and he thankfully had the wisdom and restraint not question me openly before the others. I look at him pointedly in recognition of his desire to speak, but he knows there are things I must address with my son first. He leaves us and closes the doors behind him.

I lean back in my chair, and open my palms out for Legolas in wordless command to speak freely. The posture is relaxed and open by intent, designed to encourage forthrightness. I will teach this to Legolas too, one day.

"Is the King dissatisfied with our handling of the south?" Legolas inquires, preferring to ask in his military capacity. "Is the King skeptical of our current abilities to mount an effective defense there? If so, I would respectfully beg _aran-nin_ to reconsider. We would die before our enemies encroach further."

I barely restrain a wince. This is precisely what I am afraid of; that more elves – more sons - would die for the lines of a map. I will keep what territory is necessary, but no more - for now. I admire martyrs, they move the heart of a people toward courage and goodness. But I need people more – those who can bear the weight of the daily grind, upon whose backs a kingdom is built and maintained and lived. I appreciate sacrifice but I have little use for one more dead elf, even if he swaddles himself with honorable death... Especially not when my son keeps presenting himself for the position.

"I've made my decision," I say mildly. "But if it eases your mind, _ion-nin_ , I give up land not for the reasons you mentioned. I have a great belief in our soldiers."

His eyes light up. "So you have a plan, _ada_?"

"Don't I always?"

I don't know if he can tell I am lying, but I can tell he is relieved about what we are doing and that is enough. It reminds me that I am on the right path.

A map, after all, is just a piece of paper. But my son is my direction, my compass, my guiding star. He leads me to what is right, and what is right is this – he and the young elves like him that go into brutal fighting daily, just for the sake of a few moveable lines - they are the future of the woods.

And for our forest to survive... first, our sons should.

 **THE END**

September 20, 2018


	6. 6: Great Lengths

**hi guys!**

 **Nothing new, just a bit of 'housekeeping.'** I've posted this fic as a bonus before, at the end of the Afterword to _Recoveries_. I had meant to put all of my Mirkwood-based one-shots in _The Halls of My Home_ and thought I'd already done it for this one but upon review, realized I haven't yet so here it is:)

 **Thanks to all who read, followed, favorited, and** ** _especially_** **reviewed the most recent installment to this series,** ** _Maps and Compasses_** **.** As usual, personalized reviews will later follow :) I am currently working on (I think, lol) three fics at the same time for LOTR, so I am hoping I would be able to finish at least one soon haha. At any rate, for those who've not had the chance to read this one before, I hope you like it :) As always, constructive comments and criticism are always welcome :) Have a good weekend, everyone!

* * *

 **"Great Lengths"**

 _Leholas' P.O.V. - Legolas returns from the dangerous Southern outpost missing something he knows his father will be very sorry to lose - long strands of his golden hair_

* * *

At its longest point, the King's soft, smooth, white-gold hair is almost to his waist. I've never seen it tied or braided or bound in any way other than being adorned by a crown or circlet. It is well-kept and seldom ever shorn, save perhaps for ceremony. The last time had been when he'd cut off a fistful of strands in honor of _naneth_ when she passed. There's very little memorializing of her, but in the days following her death, _ada_ had given her that.

I remember because there is little else to remember of those days. I was young and my father raising a sword to the edges of his golden hair created an impression on me. He cut a bit of my hair too, and he tossed the strands into a small, burning flame. We stood there until it burnt out and the flames turned wood to embers and hair to ash and they all melded together, indistinguishable. When the flames died so did the light in _adar's_ eyes, and he was suddenly someone different.

His hair has remained the same since though, at least as far as I can tell. It's grown longer, quickly masking the strands he'd cut out for mother. He always wears it loose and free, even in the heat of a battle. I don't know how it looks to our enemies but to me, he seems extraordinarily formidable with it; the glorious strands were long because not a single hair on his head was ever harmed. He wore them loose because he could, well, let his hair down anywhere - unfettered, unafraid, and unthreatened. As if all the world was the King's own private hall.

I myself have minimal preoccupation with hair. Minimal that is, until I all but lost half of mine in a skirmish a few days past. Now I am on the road home from a long deployment, pondering my father's magnificent head with such obsession and wondering how he would feel about my own.

"Everyone tells me _aran-nin_ will have my head for what I've done with yours," Renior says from where he rides his horse beside mine.

He is a gruff, extraordinarily large Silvan, taller and broader than _adar_. It is said he is the largest elf in all of Mirkwood, but no one is quite sure because he isn't in the stronghold frequently enough for anyone to make any real comparison. Renior is one of those soldiers whose life had somehow perpetually been on the road. The perilous Southern Border has been home for him for the Valar knows how long now, and he is wily enough to always evade being sent back. Soldiering is his life and he is without wife, child, or any other family or attachment in father's Halls. Renior is a bit of a wild one, the years having gnawed off all traces of courtly manners if they had ever been there. He is the kind of dangerous, Silvan horror my father's more snobbish peers feared would bed and wed their daughters, and the kind of elf that was the nightmare of people who were inclined to think of our kin in more wicked ways. He very much looked the part too, with his wild, red roan hair shorn close-cropped on both sides of his head, but massed at the top in long warrior's braids that went down to his gigantic arms.

My own initial encounters with the gruff soldier have been distinctly unpleasant.

 _I was freshly deployed to the Southern Border, and he was just returned from a patrol. Renior was with a band of bedraggled soldiers, sharing a meal of roasted meat around a campfire. I was introduced by their Captain and greeted reservedly; they were exhausted and hungry, and cared little for the Prince assigned to their ranks. I felt no slight, for I've been deployed plenty of times elsewhere, to more or less the same cautious reception. I was confident that with time, they would see what I am able to offer and accept me as one of their own, just as the others had. I am always proud of the fact that I've never left a post where I was not missed. I cut my teeth in previous positions, which is exactly how I had earned_ adar's _grudging permission to spend time in the Realm's most dangerous outpost._

 _Renior, however, not only refused to greet me, he did not even bother to raise his head in acknowledgement. And when one of the soldiers had politely offered me a share of the meal – he was an elf as small and slight as Renior was big and tall – Renior said, "A Sindarin Prince could hardly be bothered to share a meal with us lowly folk, Telion. Not that there was any to spare, for one has not yet done his part here."_

 _I never expected special treatment for my lineage and rank, but overt hostility was something else entirely. I was caught off-guard and had no words to say. The Royal Guard behind me draw their swords, and I waved them down._

 _"I must apologize for my companion,_ hir-nin _," the lithe, almost feminine Telion said. "Too long in the trenches and he starts to behave like an yrch. Smells like one too."_

 _The fellows around them laughed, and Renior just growled and shook his head at the lot of them and went about his meal. We dodged bloodshed then, but it wouldn't be the last time he would openly challenge me. He, for instance, refused to do patrols with me._

 _"His Royal Guard and shining armor are as good as carrying a bright red target on my back," Renior drawled out._

 _Oh, he had a particular hatred for that scale armor. "How is this infernal thing so thrice-damned clean? Are you new, or do these two guards follow you around and do the spit-shining for you?"_

 _I tried to take the high road. I've handled difficult soldiers before, elves who did not know I was worth having around for my own merits, rather than just because of my status as their Prince. It's just a matter of time, I kept telling myself. But even after months on the assignment and distinguishing myself both as a skilled warrior, a cooperative teammate and a competent patrol leader, he was difficult to please and seemed to relish testing my restraint._

 _The first time I saved his life, he actually refused to acknowledge it until he had saved me in return, saying only - "Now we're even."_

 _The second time I saved his life, I defied a direct order to retrieve him. He got angry at me and told me I had no right to. He threw punches once we were safe, and I was angry enough to return them. We both got punished, justifiably. For the first time in all my life I was assigned to latrine duty, my exclusion from which was the one distinct deference to my rank that I profoundly appreciated. At least my Royal Guard found relative amusement in it; they hovered around in their usual task of protecting me (from the gods knew what in this instance), with impassive faces unable to dim the light in their laughing eyes._

 _The punishment is how Renior and I were spared the disastrous patrol that would have most of those left in our outpost scrambling to a rescue mission a few hours later. He, myself and my two guards were the most skilled and experienced warriors there. I outranked him as a royal but he outranked me militarily with much longer years of service and deeper knowledge of the terrain. I knew when to defer to his expertise, but for some reason he hesitated. He had a mirian on him for whatever reason, that we flipped to see who would lead the job. It still ended up being him. He took command reluctantly._

 _One of my two personal guards was left at the outpost to ensure there was someone experienced holding down the fort. The two elves personally selected by_ adar _to be tail me almost used the mirian too, to settle an argument with Renior and myself – they wanted me left behind at the outpost, but were hesitant to leave me alone with the possibility of an attack while all the best soldiers were away. They agreed that I should stay back with one of them, but Renior and I absolutely refused to have the outgoing rescue party any more short-handed than it already was. Eventually, Renior, myself, the more senior of my two guards set out with a number of other soldiers while one of the Royal Guard remained._

 _We do a fairly straightforward hunt and rescue, thankfully with no casualties and with injuries serious but not life-threatening, including mine. Renior had been issuing commands and assisting a hurting and disoriented Telion, with whom he inexplicably had a special bond. Renior was distracted, and I had limited options with how to react when the two elves came under serious threat. I threw myself against the bulk of that impossibly huge elf, shoving them out of the way and landing in a heap with them on the ground. I got a substantial arrow graze on the side of my head for the bother; my head, was the same height as where Renior's heart would have been._

 _I was on my back seeing stars. Orcish arrows were jagged, heavy and thick, and the graze not only hit me dully like a hammer as if I'd been pelted by a large rock, but had also taken out a chunk of flesh as it whizzed by. I felt a white-hot burning line from the top of my left eyebrow down the side of my head, past the back of my ear and to the base of my neck._

 _My personal guard and the elves around us dispatched the assailant and his ilk with ruthless efficiency after that, while Renior crawled to me and placed a piece of torn cloth against the long, bleeding gash. Head wounds were such a mess._

 _"You're all right, you're all right," he muttered under his breath, "I got you,_ hir-nin _. You're all right. Why do you always do this? The stories are true after all, ai Elbereth. Must you be so reckless?"_

 _He was talking more to himself than to me. He looked so worried and strained that I felt compelled to let him know I was alive and likely to remain that way._

 _"You're like one of those mythical giant ogres," I told him dizzily, "The one in the stories, and there are three tasks one must accomplish before one may solicit a favor. I had to save your life three times before you are kind to me!"_

 _Renior had a feral, wildman's grin. "You're rambling like a drunkard." The grin faded, however, as he lifted the cloth to examine the wound beneath. "I can't see anything for all this blood and hair. You cannot go for very long bleeding like this."_

 _I lifted my hand to feel for myself but he swatted it away. I sighed resignedly at the impertinence. "Cuts to the head are seldom ever as bad as they look."_

 _"Well it looks pretty thrice-damned bad, my lord," he said, "though I must admit I do not see as much as I should. Hm..."_

 _I was dizzied and winded from the initial blow and my lifeblood shed on the ground, but I could sense he was up to something._

 _"I will do something the healers would have to do anyway," he said grimly._

 _"Renior..."_

 _"Hair grows,_ hir-nin _."_

 _My eyes widened in realization and horror, but I was not of a mind quick enough to do anything but lie there as he grabbed a fistful of the hair around the bleeding gash and just, just took a knife to it. Telion, who had crawled to us – he was injured himself – appeared in my line of vision. He was clutching a red-tipped orc-ish arrow in his hands that I quickly recognized as the one that had grazed me._

 _"There is no poison," he reported, "but I believe we must bring this along, to be certain." He quieted and watched Renior's task with an almost comical, pained wince._

 _I would see how much Renior had shorn off when the giant elf hands the first bloody fistful of strands to Telion, who receives them inexplicably reverently and thrusts them in his pockets._

 _"Why?" I found myself asking in bewilderment._

 _Telion paused to give it some thought. "I'm not sure."_

 _Renior cut off more, and Telion kept them all. Soon the larger elf shifted nearer to me for a shave closer to the skin. The field healer reached us just as he finished. He looked properly horrified too, though I wasn't sure if it was for the gash or for the sacrificed hair. I had a feeling I was already missing half of it by then._

 _The healer gave me rudimentary aid and a few loose, widely-spaced stitches that would hold for the road back to the outpost and until I get better treatment. Renior then hauled me to my feet and when the world turned and twisted, I doubled over in sickness but deftly managed to avoid his boots._

 _"It's true what they said too," he told me as he supported me by the arm – really embarrassingly easily, as if I weighed nothing - and rubbed my back with his free hand._

 _"What... do... they say?" I asked between dry heaves._

 _I could hear that feral grin on his voice again as he said, "You really do have excellent aim!"_

 _He half-carried me back to the outpost, and was there throughout my time in the healing ward. He was there when I fell into restorative asleep and there when I woke up. I was just feeling touched by his loyalty until I realized he was also partly there to witness my first encounter with a mirror._

 _A full third of my head - from the edges of the left side of my face to the back of my neck - was shaved, close-cropped to the scalp. The rest of my hair was aggressively parted to the right, kept in place by two strategically placed, slim warrior's braids that extended from my right temple to the back of my right ear, before letting the rest of my hair flow freely down my back. The style was almost distracting enough for me to forget about the long, puckered gash on my head and the fifteen stitches there, as well as the blooming purple bruise that surrounded it and crawled almost to my left eye._

 _Renior's handiwork was everywhere on it, and I looked at his own elaborately shaved and braided hair with a kind of stunned silence._

 _"I was asleep while you did this," I realized too._

 _"You were drugged when I did this," he corrected me. His eyes had a manic nervousness, as if he was relishing in my surprise while his heart was warring for some kind of approval._

 _"It is... different," I told him, turning my head from side to side. I looked like a savage._

 _"It was either that," he said, "or you walk around with a jagged hairless patch on your pretty little head, princeling. I made a few repairs – perfectly sanctioned by your healers, by the by. Hair could be a carrier of dirt and grime and infection after all, and they wanted the area around the wound cleared."_

 _I winced. "I suppose it would have to do."_

 _Renior grinned at him. "Now you really do look like a soldier in the Southern Border."_

I couldn't shed him from my side afterwards, which inextricably meant Telion was with us all the time too, just as he is now, on Renior's other side. The slight little elf, I later realized, is actually the Realm's stealthiest spy and most observant, clever scout. He is as subtle as Renior is strong and lumbering, but both soldiers' expertise fit their respective forms perfectly. They are alike only in that they are the best at what they do; otherwise they still make a strange, funny pair. I don't know what that makes of us as a trio.

"For centuries I distinguish myself on the battlefront," Renior rants, "And three decades I've not crossed the safety of _aran-nin's_ halls. Suddenly I am ordered home and it is not to a heroic return - I am instead, tasked with explaining how I have damaged the Elvenking's most cherished property."

I roll my eyes at him. "You are not ordered to the King's Halls to account for me, Renior. I am called home only because someone saw it fit to alarm the King by sending him blood-soaked strands of the lost hair upon my head, and you cannot bear to be left behind."

"In my defense," Telion pipes in defensively, "I had asked you for orders on what to do with them–"

"I was drugged and concussed!"

"You said you had no imaginable use," Telion continues, "and in the meantime the messenger was assembling missives for the stronghold, so I sent it to our superiors there with explicit notes on your good health, for disposal as they saw fit. They presented it to the King, not I. I wouldn't have presumed to be of the position, nor would I have had the nerve to address him directly."

"You coulda just thrown it," Renior says thoughtfully, "or at the very least washed it first."

Telion is aghast. "I was not going to just throw away the Prince's hair. It is the first time it has ever been cut, I'd imagine." They look at me expectantly.

"No it's not," I say, and find no heart to say the rest. It was cut for _nana_ , and not at all before or since. They catch my sadness and make an appropriate shift.

"Either way, the Elvenking can hardly blame you for Legolas' injuries in a skirmish," Telion says. "It is the Southern Border – everyone hurts at some point."

"And none of this explains why you are here," I point out, "You do not have to be. You could have spared yourself the grief of facing _aran-nin's_ ire. You still can if you turn away now."

"No," Renior says resolutely, "We are the Southern Border and we are always accountable for what happens there, no matter what. Sometimes someone is dead or territory is lost. Other times, we have to explain to the King how he sent us a prince and we give him back a savage." He sighs. "I may be blamed for lessening your guard. I may also be justifiably blamed for the inattention that forced you to interfere and place yourself in harm's way on my behalf."

"It's true you may," I murmur. It's not at all true, but the road home is long still and I am neither averse to some entertainment, nor above a bit of pettiness. I will let him stew in his anxiety a little, as harmless revenge for how rough he'd been with me.

"On a lighter note," Renior laughs nervously, "I've already had the worst assignment in the land for the last century. How else could _aran-nin_ possibly punish me, eh?"

I give him a long, pitying look.

"No seriously," Renior says quickly, "How else can he punish me?"

I can no longer resist the urge to laugh. Renior snarls at me, knowing he's been had.

"Are you really so scared of the King?" I ask.

"Anyone would be wise to be scared of your father," Renior says.

"Yes I know," I clarify, "that is the norm rather than the exception. I just meant it is surprising coming from you. If you're so afraid of him, how were you able to be so rude to me?"

"I wasn't rude," Renior says, slightly confused.

"You were plenty rude," Telion confirms.

"I wasn't rude," Renior says, "I just didn't know you. I'm just that way to anyone."

My brows raise in surprise. It strikes me as odd that he had no motives beyond how he acted against me, but I guess one spends so much time in the battlefields and things become simpler. A person can really be simply as you see them.

"Seriously, Legolas," he implores, "What might I expect from the King?"

Speaking of people difficult to read and filled with motives...

"I honestly don't know," I say with a laugh.

None of us are laughing hours later, when we release our horses to the grooms and cross the slim walkway that leads us to the entrance to the interior of the King's Halls. I pat my hair down uneasily. From where we approach outside, it is bright and hard to see the darkness inside. But clear is the silhouette of the mighty Thranduil's stunning white-gold head, as the King himself awaits our arrival. His hair is fanned around him, and by its shining contours I can tell where his head, neck, shoulders and chest are. The rest of him becomes clearer and more defined as I move forward.

Step by step I move closer, and wonder if he will look upon the change in me and see weakness because someone had gotten close enough to cut me so intimately. I wonder if he will think of defeat. I wonder if he will think me lesser than him. Almost certainly I know he'd already thought of _naneth_ and her loss.

I stop before him, and puzzle over a thick parchment envelope he holds in his hands. I see the tips of golden threads sticking out from it in odd places and realize it's my hair, sent ahead by Telion and now in the King's clutches. He shoves it at an attendant standing a pace behind him, and he places palms on my shoulders while his eyes rake over my features hungrily.

"You look dangerous," he says finally, as if coming to a decision only he is privy to.

"Don't worry, _adar_ ," I say with a wince, expecting his displeasure. What did Renion tell me as a small measure of comfort? "Hair grows."

"It does," the King concedes. There is a glint in father's eyes though, when he says: "But this look of yours is certainly growing on _me_."

 **THE END**

March 6, 2018

* * *

 **A Quick Note on the Symbolism of Hair** : It's common knowledge that hair is of great symbolism to many cultures and religions, and I won't go too deeply into that here. The inspiration for the fic is that I literally got a haircut yesterday, lol, but more profoundly, it got me reflecting on hair length and what it means to warrior cultures in particular.

The ones I drew inspiration from were (1) Native American practices, for example, where hair is kept long to be closer to nature, akin to blades of grass. Some would shear off hair in the event of a family loss, however, to symbolize time past and a new era after. (2) I also borrowed from the Bible's Samson and Delilah, where hair symbolized strength and its loss, a weakness.

On another note, I researched images online for how long Thranduil's hair actually is so that I can describe it. I came upon a video on YouTube of Peter Jackson and team discussing some creative choices behind Thranduil's hairstyle, and found to my delight that their reasons as to why he keeps it long and loose aligns with my own theory that it just means he has a whole lot of control about a whole lot of things, anywhere he goes haha.

Finally, for those interested, the inspiration for Legolas' bad-ass new hairstyle is the History Channel show Vikings, particularly the character Porunn (who is female, but has a very sexy, aggressive, androgynous style). Another peg would be Natalie Dormer as Cressida in The Hunger Games series of films.


	7. 7: When to Stay

**hey guys!**

 **Thanks to all who read, followed, favorited and especially all who reviewed **_**Great Lengths** , _the most recent post in _The Halls of My Home_ series of one-shots (albeit one of the earliest written, lol). Personalized responses soon... RL is really kicking my butt at the moment. I have some travel ahead, plus writing for work, writing for my original piece, and then two LOTR stories that are trying to write themselves hahaha. At any rate, here is a new one from me.

 **The next piece was entered at the Teitho Contest that ended last September 30, 2018 for the theme of "Consequences."** As one of the prized attributes of the contest is to keep anonymous, I scrubbed off some parts that could have identified _When to Stay_ as part of my series, but restored them here; that is pretty much the only change I made from the entry there and it otherwise exists as it was previously submitted :)

The story placed third, behind two really very humbling pieces, _A Man of His Word_ by sian22 and _Plight and Prophecy_ by Idris388 (which I believe are also posted here on ff . net, and so much more worthy of your time than mine :) ) Please give these a read if you haven't yet, and I also highly recommend participating in Teitho as a reader and voter or a writer - their vision, organization and dedication really helps keep the fandom alive :)

As always, feed the writer if you can (but no pressure, I know RL can be absorbing) - constructive comments and criticism are always welcome. The most important thing is - I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Without further ado:

* * *

 **"When to Stay"**

 _Thranduil's P.O.V.:A simple injury becomes something more, and father and son sit together in the healing halls, caught in the mounting, dreadful knowledge that things will get worse before they can get better._

* * *

His name physically appears before my eyes most every evening, when the report highlighting the events of the past day makes its way across my desk. The precis which I read nightly, helps form my agenda for the day to come. It is never more than two pages long, comprising only the key issues and developments that merit a King's attention.

The reports are brief, allowing me to know enough but not everything about any given matter in our Realm. For specific details that capture my interest, I inquire further with my ministers and councilors.

When Legolas was younger, his inclusion in the reports was clearly a bid to humor me. The King, as was rightfully suspected, would be interested in the progress of his son, even in its theoretically irrelevant minutiae. The early reports said things like:

 _Legolas Greenleaf (Cadet) – Southeastern border assignment. Credited with the near-wounding of an enemy scout. Scout escaped._

 _Legolas Greenleaf (Cadet) – Southwestern border assignment. Credited with one kill, arrow through the eye._

A King's objective eyes know these for the regular things that they are, barely worth the ink it is written in, listed only on account that it is about the Prince. My father's heart, however, swelled with every brief mention of my son's random achievements, the trajectory of which was steep and high toward greatness.

Report after report showed Legolas' increasing prowess and honorable conduct over the years. There was a period in which Legolas' kills had been so many they just stopped mentioning the tally. There was also a point in time wherein his heroics merited a thrilling paragraph, then half a page, which I read hungrily and repeatedly. But soon these became the norm too, such that eventually the reports turned away from his achievements and focused only on events of exception.

Lately and distressingly, these notes usually spoke of injury. His achievements are the norm now, and his hurts have become the notable event. I wonder if one day, these would be so regular that they are no longer mentioned, too.

The acquisition of a miscellany of cuts and contusions on patrol, for example, is nothing to write home about. Legolas certainly gathers them regularly. But his negligible injuries made the daily report recently, for he had been subject to the attentions of an overeager apprentice field healer practicing both his medical skills as well as its tangential reporting function. It was a single innocuous line:

 _Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – minor injuries; released for regular duties._

My son returned to the field and made it to the daily reports the following day, for two cracked ribs which merited little more attention than the hurts of the previous incident:

 _Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – moderate injuries; released to restricted duties, one week; return to regular duties upon healer's approval._

The irony of it all – and Legolas, I think, appreciates this macabrely more than anyone else does – is that the more hurt he gets, the more he is needed on the field. As one of the kingdom's most gifted warriors, the Prince getting injured usually means the fighting is extraordinarily rough, thus necessitating his expertise all the more, even if he isn't always able to provide it.

But he is often well _enough_ to _try_.

In this specific case, he was two days into his week-long restriction and assigned to the weapons stores, when a returning patrol brought in two soldiers near death along with a request for immediate reinforcements. And so healer's orders be damned – off he went running out again.

I was duly informed of his actions, but by that time it was too late to stop him and he was well past crossing our gates. Cracked ribs are not to be taken lightly, and I was annoyed and worried by his rushing off to battle while thus injured, but it is not the first time he's done it and I very much doubt it will be the last. When I re-read of his disobedience in the evening reports, however, it still drove me to renewed anger:

 _Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – abandonment of post at weapons stores, in direct violation of standing orders to restricted duties due to injury; last reported in active combat on the southwestern borders._

He came home after this venture triumphant – some say his timely arrival with a small squad spelled the difference between victory and doom – but not without a price. Because as surely as he was needed in the fighting, he was also not expected to emerge from it unscathed... because any warrior worth the name knows, if you go out hurt, the less likely you will be able to defend yourself and the more likely you are to get injured more or worse.

And so two cracked ribs became three broken ones, and my anger over his recklessness flared anew at this news.

It still burns within me now, as I stand in eager wait for him to face my ire. I've been spoiling for this fight since he left, and I wait outside the healing halls of his first stop, for him to emerge.

The corridor before the hall is usually busy with comrades, family and other well-wishers, especially with the return of many injured soldiers. But my steaming presence here has sent many scampering away, and I notice but I do not give a damn. I was told my errant son arrived on his feet earlier, clearly hurting but strong and aware enough to be allowed out of the wards and released to his own rooms after treatment. He is therefore well enough to handle the consequences of his behavior.

He steps out into the hall. He sees me waiting and the hand he had pressed to his broken side lowers defensively, as if his instinct is to deceive me into thinking he is well. But then he bows, and he resignedly brings the hand back to support the injury. He emerges from the gesture gray-faced and sweating and I am deeply and profoundly unimpressed.

"You abandoned your post," I begin.

"The weapons stores hardly had any need of me compared to-"

"You defied an order to restricted duties."

"There was no time to negotiate a change to those orders when the clearer imperative-"

"You endangered your comrades by going into a mission in the condition you were in. And no, _princeling_ , orders are by their nature not for negotiation."

"With all due respect, _aran-nin_ , I did not endanger my comrades and if anything, I believe I helped-"

" _Save_ them did you?" I snap, "That arrogance of yours, Legolas, will be our undoing. You endangered a mission in your condition, even if by incident you had succeeded in your objectives. But more than that, you endanger the succession of our Realm if you go out injured, recklessly, in the way that you had done here and have done before. You misunderstand your responsibilities if you think you are needed only for soldiering, Prince."

"I couldn't very well stay back and do nothing!" Legolas' own temper dances on the surface of his struggling composure, pulsating, ready to burst forth. I can see it in his eyes.

"Do nothing, is it, to serve in our stores?" I retort, "Dare you minimize the efforts of our non-combatants-"

"You know that is not what I meant!" he protests, "I could not just stay back and serve any less than my abilities allowed-"

"-which are directly impacted by the physical state of your body!"

The head of the healing halls, our old harried friend, Maenor, approaches us with a pointed look softened only by his imploring hands, poised together as if in prayer. He dares not tell his King or Prince to lower their voices and take their argument away from the ailing, but he needs to do his job, too. I nod at him curtly in understanding and dismissal, and he walks away from us looking relieved.

Legolas and I both sigh in frustration at the same time, except his merits a hiss and a grimace on account of his injury, and I barely restrain a wince in sympathy. He is well enough to be scolded, but there is really no sport in being angry for very long at someone who is injured.

" _Ada_ ," he says, tone more tired than conciliatory but certainly I detect some of that as well. "I am too weary to defend myself eloquently of all this now. All I can say of my actions is this – I beg the king's indulgence of my own experiences and judgment. Please give me the benefit of knowing when to stay and when to go, of when to push forward and fight and when to stop for healing. I was well enough for fighting when I left, but now our victory has purchased for us some time for rest, and I will do so earnestly for I understand the potential severity of my situation. I will follow all that the healers have commanded. All that my King commands. I will live with the consequences of my actions and I will wait for proper reinstatement." He gives me a weak, wry grin, "Contrary to popular opinion, my King, I am not trying to kill myself – or worse, vex you."

I dismiss him and his horrible sense of humor for rest in his own quarters. He ambles away more or less steadily though not near his usual, casual power and grace, and I wonder if he feels me glaring at his back. Not all is well between us yet, but that is not new either and never beyond remedy.

I go about my day, and thoughts of him crawl into my head only sporadically, centered on the hope that he is resting as was prescribed, and as he has told me he would do. His injury really is minor if well-tended.

By evening, his name crosses my desk again:

 _Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – moderate-to-severe injuries; suspended from all duties until further notice. Released from wards for bed rest and mild activity, one week. Will subject self for daily healer's visits and examination. Moderate activity expected in two weeks. Moderate exercise in three. Return to duties of any kind pending healer's approval..._

But the notation does not end here and is much, much longer this time. I had spoken in anger, I think, on dictating my thoughts to my attentive assistant, Galion. He'd written them all in that euphemistic way of his, and had merged it with the other reports of the day such that Legolas' usual paragraph also included:

. _..pending commanding officer's decision on appropriate disciplinary measures for disobedience_ (in reference to me, for who else had real command of this delinquent Prince than his father?).

 _...pending judgment on charges of abandonment of post_ (as if the weapons stores had real need of him – was I this incensed earlier?).

 _...pending judgment on charges of obstruction of operations_ (ah but this one is fair; he really did endanger others by going out to work with injury).

 _...pending_ – Well. This one is not my doing.

 _... pending a decision on the accused's petition that the required period of medical convalescence, be concurrently spent with any future sentence of punitive suspension stemming from any of the charges herein mentioned._

That one is Legolas' doing. I roll my eyes up to the heavens in consternation, wishing for some intercession from the gods or an enlightening visit from my late wife. Legolas, that clever wood-elf, has done this dance before, after all. He wants to limit his time away from the field, and wants me to consider his required recovery time to be the same as his punishment of suspension from duties for his misbehavior.

If I wasn't so incensed I would be impressed.

* * *

I go to Legolas' suites to join him for lunch the next day, which is arranged resplendently in the anteroom to his sleeping chambers. It is a rare instance that we are both here and free at the same time for the midday meal. I sit in wait, however, for I arrived while he was still ensconced with the healer within. I make a placating signal for his attendant not to announce me, for I want them to take their time. I lean back in my chair, have a glass of wine, and listen to the conversation on the tail-end of the visit.

"I know it hurts, _hir-nin_ Legolas, but the occasional deep breathing and coughing when you hear a rattle in your chest or feel thickness in the back of your throat are necessary for recovery. Do the exercises as I have taught and take the pain medicine as prescribed. They will make the discomfort as minimal as-"

Legolas coughs and covers up the rest of the advice, and the sound of it is deep, wet hacking that makes me wince. He finishes hissing, and I can imagine the pain from his ribs to be significant. But his voice is strong when he finally speaks.

"I will do exactly as you say," he promises the healer, "and I thank you for taking the time to see me."

He is even on his feet to usher the healer out, who jumps slightly at the sight of me. He bows and hurriedly moves away, with murmured, half-unintelligible apologies for having kept the King waiting. My son, on the other hand, welcomes me with a broad grin. Our thorny conversation of the previous night did not have a satisfactory conclusion and we are not in the best of terms yet, but he wears his affection on his sleeve. He either has a convenient memory, or an open heart.

"To have you for lunch with me is a rare honor and pleasure, _adar_ ," he says cheerfully.

He steps forward, opening up my view to his sleeping chambers beyond. His bed is unmade and wrinkled. This, coupled with the light sleeping shift of a convalescent that he has on, allows me to believe he is so far keeping to the prescription of staying off his feet and making himself available and cooperative to the healers. I approve of these wholly, but there is a breakfast tray on his bedside untouched, and this displeases me. He needs to eat if he expects to get better, and I know plenty of the healers' potions, especially when it comes to dulling pain, could be unforgiving on an empty stomach.

We settle down for lunch. He tries to swipe some wine but I am quicker, and he frowns at me playfully. I do not laugh but I almost do, and he catches it. He latches onto it as a signal that we are on well enough footing, and over our meal he regales me with amusing stories from the road and of the gossip amongst his friends, who are of course the children or grandchildren of my own peers – courtships among this soldier and this daughter, failed romances and the like.

He thinks he is successfully distracting me from the fact that he is barely eating anything. When he pauses to cough – again with that sick, wet, grating hacking – and catch his breath, I take over the sudden quiet.

"You need to eat if you are to get better," I tell him firmly.

He nods in agreement. "I am aware, father, and I swear will endeavor to do better later. My stomach is unsettled and I dread the thought of being sick with these ribs as they are, so I will partake in moderation for now. I've broached this with the healers and they think it is from the heavier medicines of last night." He beams at me, "I expect you will be fighting me for even the barest of crumbs, come dinnertime."

I actually have a set of engagements for dinner, but do not have the heart to say so while he looks at me like this. Galion, my attendant, would simply have to find a way to free me to join my son for the evening meal.

* * *

Galion pulls through and I am relieved I join Legolas because his optimistic projection is proving inaccurate. Come dinner time, his appetite has shown no signs of improving, and he sits across from me looking wan and miserable. He nibbles on pieces of bread and he sips on thinned soup in between stifled coughing, and I think he is eating only because I am there. He is quieter too, more introspective. I watch him carefully, and wonder where his thoughts go.

"Are you feeling unwell?" I ask.

Whatever is bothering him is suddenly shuttered from me, and he gives me a small, jesting smile. "I can't believe you are charging me with abandonment and obstruction."

I snort at him. "I do not believe for a moment that it sincerely bothers you."

"Mostly I am surprised you did not include mutiny."

"You shouldn't tempt me so."

He laughs, but this disturbs his breathing and he coughs harshly. He turns away from me, presses a hand to his injured side with one hand and with the other, covers his mouth with a table napkin. It muffles the sound of his miserable hacking, but it is still painful to hear.

"Excuse me," he manages between coughs, and the politeness of it is almost endearing, except he is taking a while to recover and the coughs turn into deep, dry heaving. I sit anxiously on the edge of my seat, and was near to springing forward when he took a deep, fortifying breath and straightened. The effort of it all has drained him, and he pushes away at his plate with his lips pressed together grimly. He looks sickened, and he swallows repeatedly and thickly.

"Have the healers been by since this morning?" I ask.

"The prescription was once daily," Legolas says, and he clears his throat for his voice is thick and broken, "They should be by again first thing tomorrow. At any rate, I do not believe they saw anything out of the ordinary earlier, _adar_."

"But you sound worse, not better," I point out.

"I was told that is not unexpected." He sighs, and stifles another cough.

"Have you been following all that was ordered of you?"

"Believe me, _aran-nin_ ," he says breathlessly but fervently, "No one wants this done and over with more than I do. I've barely moved, I've taken all medicine required, I am eating as much as I - " He cuts himself off at the thought of food. He turns a shade of green and he clamps his mouth shut as he looks away from the table. He closes his eyes and takes careful inhales and exhales.

I hurriedly motion for a servant, and wave away at the setting so that it may be cleared and away from my son's sphere. He opens his eyes and looks at me gratefully.

"Have you taken anything tonight?" I ask, "Something to ease you into sleep?"

"Some wine would be nice."

I shake my head at him in amused dismay, and he grins again. It lightens his drawn features, but it does not dissuade me from the certainty that he is weary and in need of his bed.

"You will take rest now," I say and I rise to go. I watch critically as he presses his palms to the table between us and push to his own feet. His hand drifts to his side protectively, and I realize what he intends to do. "Do not bow."

It is such a small thing, but his eyes shine with gratitude, and they rake over my face in a hungry sort of way that I've never seen on him before. I do not know this expression, but for some reason it jars me. I wonder again at what is on his mind, and if he means to speak of it with me.

"Legolas..." I hesitate, and the sound of his name dances in the space between us, small and thin and uncertain.

He shakes his head at himself, as if discouraging a line of thought. He is my son and I know I will not understand him at all times, but I wonder if I should press this time, or let him speak his own mind when he is ready.

"I just wanted to thank you," he says, "Thank you, adar, for making time to eat with me. Good night."

* * *

I leave my son to his own devices and head for my own rooms. The usual nightly precis awaits me at the desk outside of my sleeping chambers, and I glance at it before turning to the valet attending me.

The elf frees me from my court robes and folds them carefully before taking them away for the wash. I divest myself of my own top undershirt as he prepares scented water and cloths for me to freshen up before bed.

I glance again at the precis, sitting benignly on top of the desk. It looks the same as it does every night, and considering Galion's precision, it is probably laid out in the exact same manner - bottom orientation inward facing to the seat pulled out from the desk, ready for the sitter to slide into and immediately read. But there is something about the paper that nags at me tonight.

I run the wet, scented towels over my face, arms, neck and chest haphazardly, distracted by the papers, while my attendant works on my hair behind me. I finish before he does, and I hurry him along with a few moves of impatient shifting. He is quick to the hints, and scurries away with the used towels and the bowl of water, out of my chambers.

I slip on my sleeping shirts as I stride to the desk, but do not bother sitting. I snatch up the offending sheets of paper and read through them quickly to satisfy my unease.

Mild incursions, troop movements, mapped and destroyed spiders' nests, advancements in a new crop of trainees, fluctuating market rates for Dorwinion, a supply issue with grain, repairs to the plumbing systems, farming revenues, emerging trade in herbal medicine with neighboring settlements...

I read through it again. There is nothing extraordinary in it that should discomfort me so.

I read through it one more time, and I realize it is not its contents that disturb me. It is a notable absence within it.

There is no mention of Legolas.

But why would there be? He is here, safely in our halls, recovering. He should be absent from the reports.

I read it again and wonder if that is indeed what bothers me, for it makes no sense. But my nagging unease, coupled with how he had looked at me earlier this night, is making my stomach feel cold and hollow. I think on his expression again, as if there was something he wanted to say.

I've not survived this long without listening to instinct. I grab my robes and put it on quickly, and stalk back toward my son's suites.

* * *

I storm inside unannounced, and find my son surprisingly similarly attired as myself. He is in robes over sleeping clothes, as if he had meant to head to bed but changed his mind. He is standing in front of his bookshelf with two dog-eared books in his hands. He looks up at me with weary surprise. His eyes are sunken and he looks more ill than he did when we parted just earlier in the evening.

" _Adar_?" he asks in confusion. He puts his books down on a satchel on his desk, which is already half-filled with his personal effects, and he places a hand there and leans heavily upon it.

"Are you headed somewhere?" I ask him, confused myself.

He looks down at the satchel, and then back up at me.

"Don't be alarmed," he replies carefully, which is clearly the worst thing he could possibly say. I feel my eyes widen to saucers, which is probably his impetus for explaining himself quickly.

"I think I am unwell," he says quietly. He takes a fortifying breath but ends up stifling a cough. He looks away from me uneasily. "I've had this injury before and I know what to look out for. I was told to seek the healers if there is anything amiss, and I am following just that. I am headed there now, unless you have need of me for something else? Why have you returned, _adar_? Not that it is unwelcome."

"I was worried," I reply, and I step toward him. "Legolas, _ion-nin_. Look at me." He does, and I stare into his glassy eyes. "Have you been feeling ill all the while we were together? Why did you not tell me?"

"I felt ill and I did tell you," he replies wryly. Sometimes I admire his spirit and other times I want to shake him until he gives me a straight answer. More seriously he adds, "But I wasn't certain if it merited the immediate attentions of a healer. I was already told to expect pain and discomfort and at any rate, I knew I would be seen to in a visit scheduled in just a few hours. What more would I want of them?"

"And now?" There is a pit in my stomach as I wait his reply.

He shakes his head in dismay, and even now he hesitates to speak freely. "It could be nothing of course," he disclaims, "But I had begged the king's indulgence to be given credit for my own judgements of the limitations on what I can and cannot do. It is part of my job to understand this body, so to speak. I did tell you, contrary to popular belief-"

"You are not trying to kill yourself, I know!" I prod him along.

"I am cold, _ada_ ," he admits softly, finally, with a kind of sadness in his eyes. "I've never been this cold before. And my heart feels... funny."

I reach for the side of his neck. His pulse is fluttery, and his skin is so hot it is like a brand in my hand. I let my hold linger until I realize my touch must feel freezing to his burning skin. He shivers, and his hand snakes to his injured side again, strained now by fine tremors.

"Lie back down," I tell him, trying to stay calm. I know what a fever of this magnitude means for a soldier with broken rib bones. It is a complication met when there is infection in the lungs. He knows it too, and he is miserable with the anticipatory dread of it. "I will call for someone."

"I can still walk to the healing halls, _adar_ ," he tells me determinedly. "Where all their wares and medicines are. They will be bringing me there at any rate, I think, I might as well go while I have the strength to. It will be faster."

It is the 'faster' that convinces me. We may have caught this complication early enough to stem the worst effects of it – he was, after all, seen to by a healer yesterday and by one earlier today. He has also kept to his promise of limited movement, ate whenever I instructed him to, and took his medicines as instructed. He has also wisely decided to seek help when he began to feel worse.

Perhaps all he needs is some extra care from the wards, and he would soon be back to all the errant, reckless behavior I suddenly find I miss.

I sidle up beside him, and he willingly accepts the guiding hand I grip his arm with to steer him forward. He hesitates only for a moment, and I realize it is because he has forgotten the satchel he has prepared and paused only to reach for it.

"I will bring it," I say, snatching the item from the desk. I realize suddenly that he has prepared books to bring for his time in the wards – he is expecting to be kept there for a while. The extent of that self-awareness is jarring for me, but also its implication. He is feeling so poorly that he suspects he is meant for lengthy confinement.

I propel us forward as fast as I think he is comfortable with. He is, as he earlier promised, able to walk without difficulty. But he is a thin presence beside me, quiet, light. Functional but drifting, barely really there.

The halls are empty save for my son and I, and the occasional servant or guard prowling the ways. I assign one as a runner to inform the healing halls of our approach, and I gather a couple of them to walk with us, in case Legolas is mistaken in his assessment of his abilities and collapses along the way. I will need others with me to aid him. I keep them close but I otherwise keep a possessive hold of my son for myself. He makes it on his own steam, just as he knew he would.

Our escorts disperse at the entrance to the healing halls, where we are met by almost the entirety of the night shift. They are well-prepared for us, with the private alcove set aside for members of the royal family already well-lit, warmed and ready for use. I deposit my son to sit on the bed, and he looks at me wearily but gratefully while he subjects himself to examination.

I find my hands, suddenly so emptied of him, clutching at his small bag of books.

* * *

Neither of us get much sleep.

Legolas is plied with glass after glass of fever and pain-reducing tea and in tandem with the very affliction they are fighting, he is drowsy and his limbs heavy. But he is kept in an upright position on the bed with pillows at his back, and while it helps to ease his breathing, it is uncomfortable to sleep in. He does not know where to put his head, and he tosses and turns it restlessly. His blankets also keep slipping down from his shoulders, and he shivers and tugs at them irritably.

Whatever shallow doze he manages to steal along the length of the night is interrupted by healers who keep waking him up for deep breathing and coughing exercises to rid him of the congestion in his lungs, which is the source of his infection to begin with.

We are both duly informed that this is all we can do – control the fever, control the pain, keep his breathing clear. Keep him fed and drinking, keep him warm. The temperature will come and go and things are likely to get worse before they can get better, but the Prince is young and strong and well-cared for. The healers have every reason to be optimistic that this setback is not too severe, even if it promises to be unpleasant.

By early morning Legolas is fully awake, and while irritable from discomfort and lack of sleep, seemingly in better health. The fever is almost gone, and he is much more in possession of himself. He looks at me seated on his bedside.

"There is really not much use in both of us being miserable here, aran-nin," he tells me wearily. "I beg of you to get what sleep you can in your own bed. You can snatch an hour or two yet. You have a long day ahead as you always do, and I feel much revived already."

He is right in everything he says, but I find myself hesitant.

"Please, _adar_ ," he continues, "I will be here a while. If you stay too long you may tire of me." He smiles to put me at ease, but he looks exhausted and this is what moves me more. "I cannot rest properly with you hovering there at any rate. You're so grim. Your soldier will be kept quite adequately entertained with a book, you know."

I realize I am still hanging onto his satchel. I yield it to him, and he takes it gratefully. I do not want to leave and I worry for him in spite of his marked improvement, because as the healers say, things are likely to get worse. But I think I have to take my leave. There is work to be done, yes. There always is, but especially so in certain instances. There is some irony in this too – that the more hurt my son gets, the harder our Kingdom's situation must be and the more I am expected at my work, so the less able I am to stay by his side even if I am needed there too.

But Legolas is also right in that he would be too embarrassed to close his eyes and find true rest while being so closely watched by me. He is like a wounded animal sometimes, and he just prefers to keep to himself until he is better. Besides that, he is a grown elf and a strong, independent soldier – there are some battles he prefers to fight on his own. These are all perfectly normal reasons to want to be alone while hurting, but there is one more reason that only applies to us.

The fact is, the only times I've ever really sat with him in the healing halls was whenever he was so far gone that he was not of any mind to notice me. His father is a King, and unless the Prince was practically at death's door, the King seldom had the luxury of time to sit with him. The moment he starts recovering, I am usually compelled to return to my other duties and I visit only when I am able. Thus, sitting together at length while he was awake but feeling increasingly poorly was a habit we have never acquired.

"I will visit later," I promise him.

* * *

I steal away minutes of my day to sit with him, especially as I slowly come to realize the morning's revival was a temporary rally. He is breathless, cold and shivering again come lunch, and the fever returns with a vengeance by supper.

It saps at Legolas' energy hungrily, and even the coughs the healers make him do every so often are lacking in vigor. His tiredness is more terrifying than the previously loud hacking, and from the looks the healers exchange amongst themselves and the increasingly stern commands they issue for my son to try harder, I know they are becoming more worried.

After one such session, I watch them leave as Legolas lays back against his pillows exhaustedly. When we are alone and I turn to face him, I find his fever-bright eyes staring at me in that disconcerting way again, like he has done the previous night, when he was so ill that I had to bring him here. I still do not know what the look means, but something about it sickens me. It tears at my insides. I open my mouth to inquire, once and for all, what goes on in that mind of his. But he beats me to speaking.

"All the times I defy the healers for worse injuries and emerge well," he says with a weary grin, "This one time I follow everything to the letter, everything, and for so mild a thing - I end up like this."

"Strictly speaking," I contend because I cannot resist the earnest levity he attempts, "All of this is the consequence of an earlier defiance. You should not have gone out with cracked ribs. If you didn't, they wouldn't be broken now and you wouldn't be so ailing, would you?"

He waves this argument away, "Then I should not have been assigned where I was, perhaps I should not have been a soldier, perhaps I should not have been born in Mirkwood... we could go on and on. So I prefer direct causalities." He is tiring I think, for the longer he speaks the thinner his voice and the more winded he gets.

"You prefer whatever argument lets you win."

"It is a good rule to live by." He smiles wider, before he drags in a breath, and winces at the pain in his ribs. His hand has been there on his side for hours by now though, no longer moving away. " _Adar_..." The sound of my name dances in the space between us, small and thin and uncertain...

I meet his eyes squarely.

"Do you not have somewhere else you need to be?" he asks earnestly. He knows I do. I always seem to.

"You can leave you know," he tells me with a small, reassuring smile. "This is hardly the most serious injury or ailment I've ever had."

At least it wasn't, yet.

"You've left before for worse and I still emerged well. In the meantime I know you have much to do."

He says it without meaning to hurt. He says it bare-faced, factually, without malice, without weight. But perhaps that is why it pains more. I've left him before for worse injuries, that is certainly true. It is this thought that drives me away, the shame of it that I do not wish to contemplate for very long.

"I will return later this evening," I promise. "Earlier if I can. But you may well be asleep by then."

"If you do not catch me awake," he says softly, "I wish you a good night."

My guilt at leaving is assuaged only because upon my exit, there is a small crowd of his friends and comrades waiting for their turn to see him. Word of his worsening health has come to light, apparently. Some of these soldiers are injured themselves, and I suspect they are among those Legolas helped relieve when he had taken the hurts that ultimately brought him here. It happens regularly; soldiers visit Legolas when I leave. I do not know if they are driven by their love and friendship of him, or by gratitude, or by some other impetus. When I am feeling maudlin as I am now, I let myself wonder if they stay with him because they pity him. Because he has no one, because he is alone, because all he has is me and I am not there.

Whatever their motive for visiting with my son, all of them part to let me pass and in this way, they line the narrow halls on both sides of me. They all bow as I walk past, one after the other with every step I make, like a house of falling cards. I wonder sometimes, what they think of me when I leave Legolas in his sickbed in favor of my other work.

I wonder if they think I am a good king or a bad father.

* * *

My days are spoken for from the time I wake to the time I sleep, and this is the norm even without the occasional crises presented by the orc and spider incursions into our forest, which I suspect is part of a larger war rather than the straggling remnants of an old one.

There have already been engagements I eschewed in favor of sitting with or sharing a meal with my ailing son these last two days, and so some of them have been moved back and squeezed into the night. It is on one such meeting that a harried Galion walks up to me with wide, purposeful strides. He lowers his mouth to my ear, and I lean in closely to hear what he has to say.

"They cannot wake Legolas, _aran-nin_ ," he says without preamble, "They cannot wake him."

* * *

I walk into a nightmare.

There are healers surrounding Legolas, one in front of him with smelling salts to revive him on his nose, one at his side to hold him upright in support of his injured ribs, one slightly behind him rubbing insistently at his back, and one on his other side holding his head and patting at his cheeks. He is limp in their arms, wan, eyes closed and sunken, with a tinge of blue to his half-open mouth as he sucked in small, soft, shallow breaths.

"Make way for the King," Galion says, and while all of the healers' activity stops for a moment, not one of them knew who ought to yield, as they all worked on waking my son. I decide to take over the position of the one holding Legolas' head. I find his skin burns. His skin burns badly, and any longer of this will break his mind even if he can survive it.

"His fever runs too high," one of the healers explain to me. They act with urgency but without fear - yet. "And there is fluid tightening his chest. He needs to wake for medicine, and to cough out. But he sleeps too deeply, _aran-nin_. We are hoping he may respond and wake to a more compelling voice, someone he cannot deny, before we resort to more invasive measures of bringing his body some relief."

I nod in understanding and hold Legolas' head in both my hands. I press my brow down to his, and will him my strength. I reach for his _fea_ , and hum for him the song of our woods, the song of his family, the melody of his _naneth_ that I like pretending to have forgotten. He remains elusive to me, and while this strikes me with fear, I resort to other means of calling him. Perhaps he does not know me in desperation, or, or in gentleness.

"Legolas," I say, as sternly as my tightened throat could muster. "Legolas. Wake. Do not defy me again, princeling." I shake him a little, and grip his face tighter. "Thranduilion! You begged of the King's indulgence, did you not? To give you leave of judgment in knowing your own limits? Of knowing when to push forward and fight? Did you not say – you know when to stay and when to go? Were these not the very words from your mouth? I hold you to that claim now. I invoke that arrogant certainty of yours. Wake up!"

 _If you know when to stay..._

 _... then you know to stay with me._

"Legolas!" I call him insistently, and I am struck by the sudden thought that if I lose him, I might lose my mind. "Legolas!"

One of the apprentices arrives running, and she has a miscellany of tools with her, wrapped in a clean, white cloth she unfolds before their chief-most healer. I do not know what they mean to do with them, but there is a slim, hollow tube amongst them and a set of sharp, glinting knives of various sizes that catch the light.

"Legolas!" I call upon my son with more impatience. I have no desire to see any of these instruments cut into his flesh if there were other ways.

I do not know which of all the means we employ finally wakes him, but waken he does. His brows furrow and he frowns at the disturbance to his slumber. His eyes flicker open, his breathing speeds up, and as he gathers more air, his eyes widen in awareness at the need for more. He jerks almost violently against us, doubling over in the coughs we had all fought so hard to wake him for. It is loud, wet, deep and long, and almost certainly torture to his ribs. But he releases stale air, and rids his clogged lungs of blood-tainted fluid that stain spots of his crisp white blanket red. It feels like an eternity before he stops and lays back upon his pillows with his eyes tightly closed. Tears leak from their corners from his strain.

We all catch our breaths and the apprentice puts away her master's menacing tools. But I note with dread that they keep it near, now.

I step away and let the healers continue with their good works. Legolas is pushed back to the upright position leaning against his mountain of pillows. There is medicine pressed to his mouth for the pain, and tea to swallow it down and to manage his fever. There are cold compresses upon his head to lower his temperature quicker and offer him comfort.

The healers check the injury at his side, feel for his pulse and secure his blankets beneath his shoulders before leaving us with each other. His eyes are closed and he is exhausted but I know he is awake, just gathering himself.

I let him take his time, and sit upon the chair at his bedside, where a nearby table also holds his books. It is an odd selection. There is a tome on languages, one on history, and a thick book of a single epic poem. These are small and light editions made for the road, like that sometimes carried by soldiers and messengers, both of which my son functions as. They are far from the hard, leather-bound, rare, illuminated books of our expansive libraries, but they are dog-eared, well-loved, and I think liberally passed along amongst his comrades. I touch the cover of one, and I surprise myself with the reverence by which I behold it.

I look up to find Legolas' eyes open, and he stares at me again in that disconcerting way of his.

"Why do you do that?" I ask. I think he is too weary now to dodge me cleverly.

"Your face," he responds, voice barely more than a whisper. He clears his throat and he reaches for me. It is not our way, but I find I cannot deny him anything now. I might not be able to deny him anything ever again. I lean forward and let his hands, heavy and overwarm, brush my cheeks, my nose, my head. He is, I realize, committing it to memory. He is memorizing me, taking in every line and plane and shadow and hollow.

"Why...?" I ask, as I think back to all the times he'd settled that searching gaze on me over the last few days. He was feeling unwell both times, and we were saying our good nights.

"I wasn't sure," he murmurs, "I wasn't sure if it was only good night or..."

Saying goodbye.

It hits me like a well-placed (perhaps well-deserved) kick to the chest. Some part of him had known it would come, the slow failing of his body. He knew what to watch out for and he knew when to ask for help. What he did not know, was what to expect from his own father in such circumstances.

I've seen him at death's door and sat with him in wait of him getting better, yes. But I've never sat with him for its converse – to be with him and watch helplessly as he progressively got worse and worse. They are drastically different things. The former, improvement, is premised on hope and patience. The latter, brutal deterioration, is premised on uncertainty and fear.

I take the hand he had rested on my cheek and enclose it with my own. It is so warm, even with all the medicine he had taken. It is so heavy, and I know now that things are far from over for us. Legolas has only been here for two days - this affliction has only begun its crippling, insistent hold. It will take more days like this, and perhaps worse days than this, for him to really improve. If he is to improve... but the opposite is a possibility I will not consider.

I clutch his hand tightly, and lower it to the bed at his side before I release it. He closes his eyes wearily, and his whistling breaths dominate the silence of the room. He tosses his head, unable to find a good position for rest.

I cannot make him better.

I do not know how to be with him like this.

I do not even know how much he really wants me here while he hurts, and I do not think he knows it either.

But when his blanket slides off his shoulder amid his restless tossing, I know to reach for it and place it back. His eyes open a sliver and the corner of his lip turns up in a smile of thanks.

And when his head lolls in sleep and he keeps jolting awake at the sensation of falling, I know to stand from my chair and sit beside him on his bed, giving him my shoulder. He rests his head upon it and leans heavily against me until he falls into an easier rest.

And when the healers return to wake him for more coughing and drinking, I know to pat his back. I know to hold his cup.

And when they leave him again to rest, I know to return to the place where I can offer him my shoulder. He leans into me, and there we both know to stay and wait and weather this out together.

* * *

It is both boring and unnerving to sit with someone so ill.

For long stretches of time he rests easy and so do I, and we are left alone. But in the intimacy of our position, I feel all too well when he begins to shift in discomfort, heralding the beginnings of a rising fever that also brings radiant heat to my own skin. He shivers and shakes and moans and mutters mindlessly, and sometimes he hears and heeds me and other times he does not. The healers come in with their potions and cool cloths and commands for him to wake, to drink, to cough. When they finish they leave him exhausted and drained, and I take my place again. And he sleeps again.

And we wait for the worst to come, again. And go over the same things, until we begin again. And again. And again.

But I know now, not to leave.

* * *

Galion is at my disposal at any point along my stay with Legolas at the wards. He is always just beyond Legolas' room in wait of my command.

He has taken to bringing me a sheaf of papers relating to my most immediate work here these past few days, topped with two pages of the daily report for ease of perusal.

I've learned to incorporate the demands of the world outside with my commitments to my ailing son here, in both the big things and the small things. The big things come in learning to delegate better – after all, I do have a bevy of competent subjects at my disposal. But the small things could be something as simple as learning to go through papers only with my more inferior left hand, for Legolas had commandeered my entire right side.

There he remains slumped, exhausted, heavily asleep and slack-jawed, but finally suffering only a mild temperature and breathing better after so many days. The healers say he will feel tired and weakened for a while yet, winded for weeks afterwards, and would need to make special efforts before he could return to his old strength. But he is finally on the mend, and I was so pleased by the news that -

Legolas shifts slightly, but I think he has also learned the planes and hollows of my body by now, and he finds his ideal position with a contented sigh. I look down at him and shake my head with amusement, before turning back to my work.

\- I was so pleased by the news that I gave instructions to Galion and the war minister with regards to Legolas' pending disciplinary cases, and the outcome of these are to be found now in the day's highlights:

 _Legolas Greenleaf (Captain) – guilty on charges of abandonment of post. Guilty on charges of obstruction of objectives. Sentence of suspension from duties to be served concurrent with required period of medical convalescence. Reinstatement to duties of any kind pending healers' approval._

"You should have dropped the charges altogether," came a breathy murmur from beside me. Legolas is awake, and apparently reading my papers from the vantage point of where he still rests his heavy head on my right shoulder. I smile in the simple pleasure of his voice, but he does not see it.

"I think it is a fair compromise," I say sternly. "You've won your petition on the sentence. And you are guilty."

"For excellent reasons."

"That do not change the fact."

"But mitigates them. Puts things into better context."

"Enlighten me if you will, young Prince," I tell him. "Do you mean to say you are willing to venture out into battle injured and that you are willing to risk your life so eagerly for your land and your brother-soldiers, yet you refuse a few lines on paper saying what all of us already know to be true: that you are disobedient?"

He gives it a thought.

"Yes."

I laugh, and I feel him quaking from the same mirth, beside me. He is irrepressible, and I am a fool for him. But he has done the deed, and so the charges and their consequent verdict must stand.

At least, for now.

 **THE END**

September 27, 2018


	8. 8: Away

**hello everyone!**

 **First off, thanks to everyone who has been supporting _The Halls of My Home_ , and my most recent endeavor, _The World is Changed_** (personalized responses will be sent soon, when I am able). These two collections, I think you will find, are brothers. The former being about Legolas in Mirkwood with Thranduil; and the latter being about Legolas Post-War outside of Mirkwood, mostly with Aragorn. They will have many parallels like - they will feature world-building culture where the country is a character (Mirkwood and Gondor); they will feature Kings and how their positions complicate their relations (Thranduil as a father to Legolas and Aragorn as a friend). I hope you give them both a chance :)

At any rate - personalized thanks and individual responses will be sent soon. I just thought I always thank best with a fic so here's one :) If you are able, please feed the writer and remind her she is not screaming in the dark, hahaha! Constructive c&cs are always welcome. If you are unable, that is fine too. I just hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it,

Without further ado:

* * *

 **"Away"**  
 _Legolas' P.O.V. – Some soldiers malinger at the healing wards to dodge duty. Elves from the Woodland, however... turn their Kingdom upside down in their efforts to return to the field._

* * *

An opportunity arises.

The head of the healing halls, the Elvenking's personal physician himself and the Realm's Health Minister, is away visiting with family in the north. Lord Maenor's departure thus leaves his just-as-skilled but... _shall we say, more malleable or more reasonable?_... apprentices in charge of clearing soldiers from the convalescent list and back into active duty.

I've been waiting for his departure for a week.

I've been preparing for his departure for a week, ever since I've heard it said that the Elvenking had forced a vacation upon the harried healer. It is a vacation I agree with wholeheartedly. First from a professional capacity, because anyone who has custody of our fighting soldiers at their worst states needs relief too, for his heart and for his hands. As long as he is in the bounds of the stronghold and there are soldiers who need him, the devoted Maenor could never just keep away. He needs some rest, so that he does not compromise his skills and his perceptions.

I also support his vacation on a more personal note.

This is because ever since I'd taken a particularly trying injury two months past, I think he'd gone and lost some of his nerve sending me back into the fray. I've been through three attempts to be released and each time had been soundly sent away.

"Rest," Maenor said earnestly. "Give your body time to recover, _hir-nin_. Do not rush it. Any warrior worth his salt knows – the more hurt you are going out, the less you can defend yourself and the more likely you are to get hurt more. See me again in a week..."

What I need are fresh eyes, I think. Someone not scarred by how I had looked being brought in like that. Someone who was not on the receiving end of my formidable father's demand that I. be. kept. alive. one. way. or. another.

Maenor's apprentices will see me and deem me fit, I know it. I am fit, I have been for weeks.

There is a demanding rap against my chamber doors. I know who it is by the power and careless imposition of it. Renior, a burly Silvan sergeant who I worked with in the southern borders and who had somehow bullied his way into my right-hand side as one of my personal guards, is at the door. I recognize how he knocks, though he does not always do it. That he exercises restraint rather than simply just barging in means he is in the company of another good friend, a peerless Silvan scout named Telion.

My guess is confirmed when the delicate scout speaks. "M'lord Captain, it is us, Telion and Re-"

"If you are going to do it, Legolas," the burly one cut in, "Now is the time!"

I scramble up from behind my desk, where the sheaf of paperwork my father has seen fit to bury me under during my convalescence are stacked neatly, the assigned work completed.

My healing wounds protest at the sudden movement. I'd taken an arrow on the left side of my chest near the shoulder, and when we resorted to close combat the injury prevented me from adequately protecting that side, resulting in a stab wound and a savage cut that sliced half my leg open from mid-thigh to the knee.

I bury the unsurprising pang in favor of hurrying. I am almost certain I will not be the only recovering soldier with this plan in mind, and I have to finish executing it quickly before the apprentice healers catch on to what we are all trying to do -

That is, to break out of Maenor's convalescent list and return to active duty in the field, without being subject to Maenor's particularly rigid inspection.

I open the door to my loyal friends, who look slightly apprehensive. I gave them explicit instructions to inform me once Maenor was headed out.

"What?" I ask.

"Now that we're at this juncture," Telion says carefully, "perhaps this is not such a good idea."

He is holding a tray of cakes. I've all but been living off of them in a bid to gain some weight, and Telion (who is sweet on one of kitchen workers) always brings me some. Earning muscle will have to come later when I am allowed more strenuous work; the current priority is to look less like a wraith and fit back in my clothes. I am succeeding, I think, but I stuff three pastries in quick succession into my mouth, for good measure.

"Why not?" I ask around a mouthful of icing.

"Well, my lord Maenor knows how skilled you are," Telion replies, "and his wisdom and experience as a healer is said to be second to none, perhaps only to that of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. These mean that first, he would not deprive our Kingdom of your services any longer than he needs to; and second, his expert eye must really find it necessary to waylay you."

"I am sure he has successfully shared that exemplary healing wisdom and experience with his apprentices," I say with a grin. "They will examine me and find me fit, I know it. I feel good, _mellon-nin_. I feel strong. I am ready. You see me regularly, you should know."

Telion fidgets. "Sometimes I wonder if I know only what I want to know, my lord, if you get my meaning. I want you well. I need you well. You do not know how you looked when we brought you home."

I know how it felt, though. It felt like dying, but that was months ago and something I keep only to myself.

I wiggle my brows at him to get him out of this mood. "Well I certainly look better now, don't I?"

"Only in the sense that anything is an improvement from that," Telion sighs.

I reach for a scone.

"Hey, don't make yourself sick," Renior says. "That's what happened to that other archer."

"Which one?"

"Bastion," he replies. "The baker's son. Thought he could look hale stuffing bread in his body and fool the healers into releasing him early. His _adar's_ house is of course crawling with the stuff, and so he was at it day and night. Made himself sick, bought himself indigestion and more days off the field that way."

"That sounds inaccurate," Telion says. "How much bread could an elf possibly consume so as to-"

"True story!" insists the gigantic Silvan.

I chew carefully at his food just in case, and forego the last piece on the tray. Renior partakes of it gladly and perhaps even by design.

"You headed to the healing halls now, my lord?" Telion asks.

"I have one more stop," I say as I maneuver around them, "but I thank you for the valuable information."

"Where are you going?" Renior calls out from behind me.

"Somewhere you cannot follow!" I reply, "I will see you later, my friends – and we shall toast to my clean bill of health and return to work!"

* * *

I meet an old friend in one of the long, winding hallways of the stronghold. Harnon is a Sindar noble I had grown up with. He is beloved by many an _elleth_ for his easy charm and good looks, though I must say he is looking as wraith-like as myself today. Recovering from an injury too apparently - everyone seems to be in some fashion, lately.

" _Hir-nin_ Legolas," he says, favoring me with a wide smile. He looks slightly uneasy at the sight of me. "You are looking much improved!"

"Yourself as well," I say, forcing a similar smile upon my own face. I do not have very much time for pleasantries, and hope he would veer away from my path soon. The more we walk though, the more we both begin to realize we are headed to the same place.

"Where are you off to today, Legolas?" he asks with forced cheer.

"To see an old friend," I reply easily. "And you?"

"Same."

We walk quietly side by side for awhile. His pace picks up slightly, and I match it. I think I know what this is about.

"You're headed to Lady Mallossel's chambers aren't you?" he asks me, sounding resigned.

"Yes," I reply, speeding up my walking a little bit more. He matches it easily. In my proper fighting form I'd have left him in the dust, I always have. But already my healing wounds are smarting and my breath is shorter.

"And then you mean to subject yourself to her uh, ministrations?" Harnon asks.

"We are of a like mind it seems," I say through grit teeth.

"You know she won't do it for everyone," Harnon says.

"I know," I say tersely.

"I am sorry Legolas," he says quickly, "but I'm afraid I will have to take advantage where I can."

He went off running down the hall ahead of me. I jogged for a little bit after him, but ended up having to brace an arm against the walls and catch my breath. I am unaccustomed to losing and I am annoyed by it, profoundly. But I am trying to get a healer's clearance to return to work; I refuse to kill myself on some irrelevant exercise. I rub at my healing leg wound and take a steadier pace forward. I just need clearance from the healers, and then I can work on getting better. I can restore myself to proper fitness.

I pass a soldier going in the opposite direction as me, and though he bows at his prince, I spot the slightly pinked, put-upon healthy-glow of his cheeks. Harnon, though he will beat me to Lady Mallossel's door, will not be the Sindarin elleth's first "customer" today.

I reach the door to her chambers just as Harnon steps out of them. Like the soldier I passed earlier, he has just enough rouge on his cheeks to look natural, but impart a healthier glow upon his face. He grins at me cheekily, bows, and walks away.

Mallossel sees me standing at her door and she groans, most unbecomingly, most uncharacteristically. She almost shuts the door on my face. "Oh Thranduilion, not you too," she says in profound displeasure. But she sighs, composes herself quickly, and returns to the icy, fetching Sindar noblewoman she is most known to be.

Her lively expression softens to a frigid, impeccable mask. She is a work of art in the flesh with her naturally beautiful bones and perfectly symmetrical features. But more than her god-given beauty, she has poise and carriage, and she is always well turned out in manner, dress and yes – the subtle colors she applies upon her face to accentuate her lovely angles. For so many years of my life admiring her when I was younger – all the Sindar nobles did, both _ellon_ and _elleth_ alike – I thought that high, lively coloring was natural too.

She remembers herself and bows. She steps aside and keeps her head low, making way for me to enter her chambers without invitation, in accordance with the protocol she grew up following.

As the King's son, technically all of the stronghold is my home and any door and room is at my disposal to enter or leave. Mallossel's mother is one of my adar's ministers and as such, their family is given a suite of chambers in the stronghold as an office and residence. They keep a larger homestead, a village in the west, but they spend most of their time in the Elvenking's service and thus, most of their time here in Thranduil's halls. She serves as secretary to her naneth and is a courtier I often see around the stronghold. We know each other fairly well, though neither of us are in each other's most intimate circles.

I close the door behind me. "Is the Lady Galliel here?"

"She is away doing inspections of the schools," she replies. "My mother is not expected back for some time, _hir-nin_."

"This is most ideal then," I say excitedly. "As I came to see you, and not her. I am in need of your aid, Lady Mallossel."

She sighs. "I suppose you have come here for the same reason everyone else has. You've come for some of my rouge."

"I heard it has the most miraculous effect," I joke.

She shares a bit of my dark humor. "It heals soldiers, apparently."

"I wish it did," I offer wryly. "But alas, it only gives us just enough of a flush upon our complexions to pass the healers' eye and return to duties."

"I saw how you looked when they brought you in, my lord," she says hesitantly. "I do not wish to be complicit in sending you back out before you are properly recovered."

"You do it for others who have asked," I point out.

"Not everyone is Thranduilion," she argues. "and even if you weren't, I reiterate – I saw how you fared when you were brought in. You were much worse off than anyone else who uh, lived. Harnon says he outran you here, for instance – that is certainly a first."

 _Damn_ that braggart...

"I am recovering," I concede, "And yes, I am not yet at my best. But I am getting there, and I think we can both honestly say that even at this state, I am a better fighter than most. Plus – I did not take the race too seriously. Harnon was perhaps exaggerating his prowess in trying to impress you."

"You take any race seriously," she points out.

"My lady," I say, and my patience is strained because my time is running out. "I am fit, I am ready. I am only wasting away here. I already know the healers will approve of my request to be released to duty."

"Then you have no need of me, now do you?"

"I only want to help them feel more confident about their impending decision."

She laughs. " _Aran-nin_ must indeed have his hands full with you."

I fidget. I like her laugh. In my all too distant adolescence, I once entertained dreams of making the Lady Mallossel laugh, we all did. It is a little different when you are in a rush, older, and the joke is turned on yourself.

"So in fighting form, are we?" she asks, more seriously now.

"Absolutely."

"Prove it," she says. "I want to see your archer's stance."

I accommodate her request with little to no effort, and position my body accordingly. This is all rote to me, like breathing –

She rolls her eyes. "Don't play me for a fool, Thranduilion." She vanishes for a moment into her bedroom and returns with a mighty bow. It is of older make and style, well-used, well-weathered, well-loved. I know this weapon. I recognize it as the one that belonged to her late father, and it is notorious for being a heavy draw. She squeezes it affectionately before handing the weapon to me.

"Prove it with this."

The weapon on its own is heavy, and its draw will be more so. It will be unkind to me in my current state, will expose weaknesses I would rather hide.

"Why?" I ask her, feeling some irritation. "Are you a healer now, qualified to ascertain my fitness for duty?"

"Apparently we all are," she says mildly, taking no offense at my harsh tone. "You decree your own self well and ready and in no need of the opinions of the experts of our healing halls after all-"

I raise a hand to silence her – admittedly – sound reasoning. The gesture again makes her laugh.

"You look like your _adar_ , our king, when you do that."

My brows rise in surprise. I would have to be more conscientious of this in the future –

No more dallying. I draw upon the weapon as requested and hold the position.

It is _torturous_.

But I hold it. I can hold it as long as I need to for her inspection. I can hold it as long as I need to, to get what I want. Corollary to this – I can hold it as long as I need to, to fight.

To win.

"Do I see you sweating a little there, my lord archer?" she teases, but her eyes are serious as she walks in circles around my form, her gaze devouring me. She stands close – to intimidate me, I think - and I feel her breath kissing at the strands of my hair. "This would have been nothing for you before."

"You underestimate your father's skill if you think this would have been easy for me, even at my strongest."

Her lips tremble in memory, and she teases to cover it up. She is a courtier in an elven Kingdom, after all, well-equipped at disguising feelings. "Resorting to flattery for my beloved _adar_ is well-played, _ernil-nin_." She sighs. "You can stand down now."

I do so and steel my expression so she does not see my relief. I am amused by her casual use of our soldierly language, but our non-combatants are fighters all on their own too.

I think I am about to get what I want, what I came here for. But then something in her gaze shifts, and I feel a change in the air. She covers her vulnerability over the mention of her father by blinking at me coquettishly.

"I can help you of course, my prince," she says, "but I would be so sorry for further loss of my rouge."

I raise an eyebrow at the play. She can pretend to be a shallow courtier at the drop of a hat and has been at it for a long time, but so can I and so have I.

"If you help me get clearance from the healers, my lady," I say coldly, "They are likely to send me to the south. This assignment is likely to relieve Captain Melchanar, who has long been holding the valiant duty."

Her eyes flash dangerously, and I wonder if I've gone too far. The blue-blooded Sindarin noble Mallossel has long been in love with the oblivious Silvan Captain, a farmer's son rising in the ranks on his own merits and military prowess. Everyone knows Mallossel holds a tenderness for him, everyone except the Captain himself.

"Oh you do play to win, Thranduilion," she hisses.

"But my appeal to you is not unreasonable," I tell her earnestly, in a bid to win back her charitable side. "Whether it is Melchanar I relieve from duty or some other soldier... I have been out of the front lines for two months. I am healing, well-rested and eager. Surely at my current condition I am already more capable of facing our enemies than a weary warrior who has been at post, fighting day in and day out, all these weeks."

She shakes her head at me in dismay. "I could very well be sending you to your death. Do you understand the weight of that action?"

"I do. I understand your conflict, and it is in a sense a defiance of _aran-nin_ -"

"No," she insists. "No, I do not think you do understand. I do not do this lightly, my lord, do you know why? It is not because your father is the King and I fear the consequences of defying him. I am wary because the day my father went out into the field that last time, that time when he died? That very day – my _naneth_ did this for him.

"He had just come home injured and was on a healer's holding list," she shares, "when a skirmish escalated and reinforcements were urgently called for. He knew his skills were needed, even slightly diminished as they were by his injury. So he asked my _naneth_ to help him look well, the way she always had. Where else do you think I learned this, after all...

"He got his clearance to leave for duty and he left," she continues. "And my last sight of my _adar_ was a soldier standing tall upon his warhorse, cheeks pleasantly rouged to hide the lingering gray of illness, and he died and never came back."

"I am sorry," I say after a long moment, and I mean it with all my heart. "But you do understand, and I hope your _naneth_ the Lady Galliel, does as well – your father's death was through no fault of hers. He was a soldier to his bones and would have found some other way. Her assistance only made things easier for him, and saved more of his energy for his real work. Many died that day in any case – no matter their health coming in, no matter their skill.

"I remember that day because so many fell," I tell her. "And the south was under such a barrage that even the King had gone out. I remember because I was still young, the wounds of my mother's loss still fresh, and I quaked at the thought of being an orphan.

"But my father came home," I go on, "My father came home to me, because soldiers like your father gave everything they could to fight. Your _adar_ , in particular, perished heroically saving many lives – including that of my own _adar_. The whole Kingdom mourned his passing.

"My lady," I implore her, "let me do for others that which your father had done for mine. That which he did for me, so that I would not be an orphan."

She looks at me long and hard, before her gaze softens and she attempts a joke – "Well if you can vex me so, perhaps you are well enough."

She motions for me to sit upon an armchair, and she vanishes into her boudoir before returning with a lidded pot. She kneels in front of me and considers the planes of my face, before removing the lid and reaching with two long, delicate fingers into the bowl. The digits come out red stained.

"With the prince's permission?" she asks – ever appropriately – before touching my face. I nod, and feel her cool fingers particularly because my cheeks are suddenly warming.

"Now you're embarrassed?" she says with a small laugh. "See? Now you have a healthy coloring you could have come by more honestly."

I shake my head at her in amusement and for a while, let her work. She takes it very seriously. Her brows furrow in concentration, and once in a while her gaze is abstract with her secret deliberations. And then I wonder, unable to keep myself from asking aloud -

"So why do you still do it? Even as it weighs upon you so."

"Because none of you will take 'no' for an answer," she says pointedly. More seriously she says – "Because it is all I can do. Because we need our fighters fighting out there – not expending so much energy on shenanigans here, trying to be released. Because it feels right. Because... because when my father died, so many more others did not have to."

She shakes off her maudlin and resorts to her haughty, teasing, icy courtier persona. It was second skin, as rote to her as archery is to me. "But I still meant what I said about my diminishing stocks of rouge. _Ellyn_ do not, do not! know what it takes to make these."

She continues working on my skin, backs away to observe the effects of her ministrations, then works again.

"So what is in this?" I ask.

"Blood."

"What?!"

"Red ocher," she murmurs with a smile at my genuine alarm. "Carmine. Beeswax, a few other things. I add perfume for my own pleasure. I do not waste those upon you dregs, you will only take it for granted."

I grin unapologetically.

"Stop moving," she commands.

In moments we are done, and she shows me my reflection upon a mirror. I do not look as I did before taking grievous injury, but I at least do not look as is I've been cooped up and coddled for the last two months. It did not look strange, or forced upon.

"I can go bolder," she says as she watches my reaction. "But you want some subtlety so as not to arouse suspicion."

I beam at her. "You are an artist."

"And you, a troublemaker," she says fondly. "But I do have skill, by the Valar. It is certainly more effective at showing your - shall we say improving? - health than the other things you and your friends have been up to."

"What have we been up to?"

"There is an infamous and much displeasing sweet cake shortage in the stronghold at the moment," she teases, in reference to my efforts at gaining weight.

"But watch yourself with those, my lord. Did you hear about the baker's son, who'd gone and broken his own stomach gorging on bread in a bid to look better recovered himself? There is a lesson in that."

"One would think," I concede with a chuckle. "We are done, yes?"

"Yes," she affirms. "But please, hir-nin, watch yourself out there. And I do not know how you may have heard about what I do here, but please speak of this to no one else-"

We are disturbed by a knock in the door. She looks at me miserably.

"My _naneth_ is beginning to wonder about my many gentleman callers," she says. "She once told me rouge and subtle paints upon the face are attractive to _ellyn_ , but I do not think this is what she had in mind!"

* * *

When I reach the healing halls, there is already a row of elven soldiers waiting to be seen by a healer who can approve releases back into proper duty.

Harnon is here, and he beams at me. The one I ran into on his way out of Mallossel's chambers is here as well. The three of us are looking healthily flushed and well-placed for release, indeed.

In our company are two soldiers whose cheeks are too ruddy. One of them has fingers still red-stained by a mixture perhaps similar to that of the Lady Mallossel's but not quite as well applied. The other's coloring on the other hand, makes me wince for I think he tried to use blood. They apparently had the same idea as Harnon and myself, but were not subject to Mallossel's expertise, or perhaps even the expertise of any _elleth_.

The infamous indigestion soldier is in our company too, still looking slightly green from his overzealousness. There are several others of our ilk, and I see padded uniforms and hidden bandages. All and all a hardy crew, more eager than well, but ready for work nonetheless.

An attendant at the healing halls sees me and bows before motioning me forward to come first. It was a concession to my birthright and military rank I do not often invoke or actively seek, but I accept at this time so that I can sooner return to proper fitness and at least some measure of work.

But as I step toward her, the head of the healing halls, Lord Maenor himself, suddenly comes bounding down the corridor.

"What are you doing here?" we ask each other in surprise. I say nothing, but his quick thinking gives him the answer anyway. His eyes widen with a rage I've never seen on him before.

"With my time away, you lot have decided to descend like vultures upon my apprentices?" he demands. "Have you no decency? No proper judgment? No sound thinking? As if we - as if I – do not send enough strong, healthy elves out to slaughter every single day, you come here with your lofty claims of recovery, try to fool my people, and throw yourselves out to the wolves? You try to go over my head with this foolishness?"

He is met by a barrage of soldierly protestations, but I hold my tongue. I know he, as a healer, has every right and qualification to hold us back. But then – Mallossel and my friends Renior and Telion, are also right to help us go around him. And we soldiers are right too, in doing everything in our power to return to the battlefields to fight. To fight for our people, to fight for our Woodland, to relieve our struggling soldier-brothers and take their place so that they too, can find rest.

We are all in the right.

The only thing wrong in this situation is that we are all compelled into these roles in an unforgiving, relentless war.

But Maenor is still seething.

"Elves are already getting skewered, sliced and killed even at their strongest. How do you think you miserable lot will fare, huh?" He is so incensed as he rakes his gaze over each of us that he does not even bother calling us by our names. He calls us by our damage.

"You want to fight with that broken arm?" he asks one. "And you – stabbed thrice! How about you, cracked ribs with lung bruising? Are you going to cough at the orc and spurt blood at them? Because if you are not, you had better just sit back. Oh and you, you miserable bastard, poisoned arrow with self-inflicted indigestion! What hopes we harbor for you." He saves a special look of disdain for me. "And do not even get me started on you – exsanguination! You died in my hall!"

I wince, for that I did not know until now.

I hold my tongue, heroically I think!, at a clever retort: _But you got me back, did you not?_

We all fall to deathly silence. He has made his case and though we all have one to counter him, none of us are ready to make it when Maenor is like this. I've never seen him in this mood before, and I understand now why _adar_ had insisted he leave for a short reprieve. He is wearing thin on his thankless job – saving lives, only for soldiers to return broken again, only for him to release them out again, only for them to return to his halls again, in a cycle that will only end when someone dies.

Or when we finally win.

Which brings me to wondering why he is here and not away, as he had originally intended to be. Something must have happened and sure enough, I hear a commotion outside.

"And now you've made such nuisances of yourselves that I forgot why I was here!" Maenor exclaims. He calls for his healers and gives them rapid-fire instructions. "I was headed out when I heard from a forward party that mass casualties are coming in from an ambushed outpost."

All the soldiers in the room instantly stand taller and more alert, at this troubling news.

"Was the outpost lost?" I ask.

"No," Maenor replies. "They are still fighting to keep it. But we here in the halls must prepare to receive the ailing." He winces as he adds, "The injuries are many, and severe. There will be a call for reinforcements."

I look at him expectantly and know it is an expression shared by my brother soldiers here. Let us go, let us go, let us go...

Let us help.

Let us fight.

Inextricably, we also ask – If the gods will it, let us die.

It is a wordless plea, and I think Maenor hears the last one loudest. But I think the healer knows, just like we all do, that none of us have any real choice in the matter.

"Go," he mutters at us, but there is no more heat to it.

Everyone scrambles – soldiers to report to their commanders, the healers to prepare their wares. But I linger beside Maenor for a moment, for I always thought we were good friends. He is one of my father's peers and considerably much older than me, but no one knows me quite as deeply and intimately, lately. He's heard my ranting fever dreams and secret fears, held me while I shook in pain and misery (or sometimes, grieving loss), joked with me into ease when I was hurting and disheartened. He always put me back together again, and perhaps more importantly, he always knows how to keep my father together whenever I am in his care. He is funny and compassionate but pragmatic and straightforward, all underlined with hope for improvement, hope for better things, hope in our future.

I cannot leave having him angry at me. I contritely help remove his travel cloak as he struggles out of it so that he can work better. He grudgingly accepts my aid, but not quite yet – my wordless apology.

"What are you still doing here, Thranduilion?" he asks wearily, "Did you not already get what you came here for? My permission for you to try once more and kill yourself?"

"I would not press this upon you or any of your apprentices if I did not feel ready," I tell him quietly. "I am certain I would not be a hindrance to our objectives in my current state, and I swear to you I will keep to reasonable limits. I cannot apologize for my convictions. I thought defiance was necessary and my mind still has not changed about that. I am needed and I know I am sufficiently ready. But for my casual disregard of your authority – I am truly sorry."

Maenor glares at me for a long moment, before he deflates with a sigh. "I intend to reuse that statement when I face your _adar_ and he realizes I have defied _his_ orders to be away from here for awhile." He adopts a mocking version of my words – "I will not apologize for my convictions, but for my casual disregard of your authority, I am truly sorry. My mind has not changed – I am needed, and I am sufficiently ready."

I smile at him fondly, but study his face, lined by exhaustion and worry. "Are you, really?"

"Sorry?" he kids, avoiding the question, "No, I am not sorry."

I roll my eyes at him in consternation and wave away his attempts at levity.

"You look like Thranduil when you do that," he observes.

"Are you _ready_?" I press.

"I simply have to be nowadays, it seems," he admits. "Are you? Truly? For I meant what I said – you did die in my halls for a short while."

It is my turn to evade. "I do not even know what exsanguination means. I thought you were telling me the name of my real father."

It is an awful joke, but he sneers for all of its vileness, because that is somehow the kind of thing he tends to find funny.

"Legolas – are you really ready?"

"I simply have to be nowadays, it seems," I echo his words. It is true enough. I am not yet at my best, and I would have to be wary. But when a soldier is needed, he goes. That is all.

He sighs. "Well. Just... do not push it. Take care of yourself, for crying out loud, if not for me, then for your father the King. Take care of yourself and thus, guard his sanity for all the rest of us. And you can tell all those other fools I've just let loose on the world – if any of them die, getting released from the injured list will be thrice as hard for everyone else in the future. Is that understood, soldier?"

"Yes, my lord," I tell him with a grin. "Understood. I will take my leave now. Have a care for yourself."

He sends me off with a small bow, and we both turn away from each other to return to our respective work.

* * *

There is more to do before I can leave.

I seek out our War Minister Brenion, to whom I directly report so that I can formally receive his instructions, though I already know where I will be sent. He is of course, beside the Elvenking and other ministers in counsel about the recent brazen attack that has sent our vacation-bound chief healer scurrying back to work.

All of them are clustered along the entrance to the healing halls, which is expected to be the first stop of the soldiers returning from the fighting.

They stand with a bedraggled scout, who had gone ahead of the retreating party to inform the king and his ministers of the situation, request for reinforcements, and tell the healers to be ready for incoming injured. His information however, is limited because he was sent away earlier than the others, and the small group await more updated information from the new arrivals.

I catch my father's eye, and he starts a little at the sight of me here. He tilts his head in the direction of a curtained, private alcove usually reserved for the treatment and monitoring of royals in the healing ward. I was its most recent occupant, and though I cannot remember most of it, Maenor's recent outburst tells me my last stay here had been particularly difficult. This is probably not the best place to tell my father I will be off to war again.

I follow him inside, and his personal guards trail us until the entrance, which they guard with the most forbidding expressions.

"I was cleared to return to duty," I tell him, a little more quickly and more breathlessly than ideal, but I just want it over with.

He glances at the commotion beyond the entrance, past the guards. "Some would say – it couldn't have come at a better time. We have a sudden, urgent need for warriors of your caliber."

"And what does the Elvenking say?" I ask.

I speak to fill the lengthy silence that follows.

"I am ready," I tell him, and I make an effort to stand taller and stronger. "And I must go at once." I look him in the eye. I need him to take me seriously. For with a single word of a single syllable – No – he can make me stay. It is not only the healer's approval that I, in particular, need to get after all.

"I can command you to stay," he murmurs contemplatively.

"You can," I concede nervously. "But that is not in you."

It is not in my father to be less than the Elvenking, to show preferential treatment, to deprive his kingdom of a good fighter, to keep me safe while he sends others out to danger. It is not in him.

"It wasn't," he says with a wince. "But I've acquired wicked habits since... since you became a soldier."

"You've always had wicked habits," I tease him, to coax us both out of this line if thought.

He ignores me. His eyes drift to the empty bed, which I occupied last. He places a hand to the crisp white edge of the stiff, clean mattress.

"This is new," he mutters. "You had ruined the last one beyond saving. There was so much blood on you I did not even know where I could touch you without hurting you. I ended up placing a hand on your ankle, Legolas. The one place I could touch my own son, to remind him he was being cared for and awaited, to tether him to life, was his ankle."

I do not remember any of it.

"I have great ankles," I say quietly, with a small smile. "Seems as good a place as any." I need to get us out of this dark place. I need to get us away, so that we can both do our work.

"It was ice cold."

I sigh. "I need to leave, _aran-nin_ ," I tell him. I mean to evoke his sense of duty in calling him this and it usually works. But like he said, perhaps he has acquired 'wicked habits.'

He sets his jaw, and it is a look I, like all of the Elvenking's many subjects, am intimately familiar with. But unlike the rest of our people, I do not have the luxury of giving in to his display of displeasure.

"I need to leave, _adar_ ," I say again, for it is true whether he is a father or a king or both. He needs to release me to my duties both as his servant and as his son.

He tilts his head at me contemplatively. "Do you know, Legolas, that you are perhaps the greatest source of my political capital in our Realm? That our People never question my judgment and fairness because as long as you go out into danger, as long as I send my own son away - I have the cachet and credibility to send away the children of others. What this means is – I send you off into battle not only because you are a soldier skilled, but precisely because you are my son. Your lineage, instead of exempting you from harm, requires more of it for you.

"Even half as skilled as you are," he continues, "by incident of your birthright, I would still feel compelled to send you away somewhere. Even when you are hurting, as you still are now."

"I understand, _adar_ ," I tell him, "I always have. I am glad to serve you in any way. And I am not hurting, not anymore."

He presses his lips together and nods grimly.

"I thank the Valar everyday that you are as hardy as you are," he says. "But do not push your luck, _ion-nin_. And do not push..."

His voice quakes, uncharacteristically, and he has no word for it, this secret line, this sacred barrier I must not break. The limit that my death will cross. On the one side of it is his sanity, on the other side of it, his brokenness.

And I am reminded that it is not only I and soldiers like myself, who are compelled to fight while hurting. It is not only Maenor who needs to push through when he is heart-weary. When children become soldiers, their mothers and fathers fight a constant battle too. When wives and husbands leave for war, they leave behind family and friends.

And all of those left behind, they battle self-interest and collective gains. Every one of them wishes someone else is sent to war before those they love are sent. Every one of them wishes, when there are casualties, that it is someone else/s child, someone else's spouse, and not their own. There is always that little relief when someone else is dead. There is always that little jealousy when someone else is alive.

We are all standing at the edges of our physical limits, at the edges of our frayed nerves, at the edges of hope and despair, at the edges of being willing to pay for victory with the lives of those we love – or letting others do it. And until this thrice-damned war ends, none of us are exempt.

 _Adar_ does not extract from me, the cruel promise that I would return alive. He knows I think, that I would have damned us both and lied, if only so I could get out of these doors as a soldier, and finally fight again as one.

"Look after yourself, Legolas," he says.

"And you, _adar_." I give him a bow, which he returns gravely.

He taps at the new mattress in the royal quarters, and his gaze shifts, and the thoughts lodged in them are as clear to me as if he had taken a physical step on that highline again, that edge we all traverse. He trembles toward hope, shakes toward despair, rebalances and readjusts his weight. He straddles the line between needing to set me free and needing to keep me close, stands between cold calculation and warm affection.

"Next one of these you ruin is docked from your soldier's pay."

I laugh at him. "I wasn't aware I actually got paid."

 **THE END**  
February 1, 2019

 **QUICK NOTE:** I am a big believer in the power of makeup in politics and war, and this can be traced all over our human history. Ancient Egyptians used it thousands of years ago (the ingredients list above is actually from them) for beauty and propaganda, just as Queen Elizabeth found merit in them for her political imagery hundreds of years ago. In World War II, internees in concentration camps used precious precious stocks of rouge to appear healthier during sessions of 'selection' - the consequence of not looking healthy was extermination. Also in World War II, conquered cities sometimes used charcoal on the faces of women to make them appear less attractive and prevent rape. I find Mirkwood culture to be amenable to a kind of militaristic depiction in fanfiction, so I did not think it too out there to use makeup in this setting on a wartime context. I've used appearance-related war culture elements in one more story in this collection of fics, actually; "Great Lengths" was about hair :) I hope it worked out!


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